


White Picket Fences drabbles

by Aoidos



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-24 03:28:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 65
Words: 252,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aoidos/pseuds/Aoidos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>UPDATE: I no longer update the WPF drabbles here, but I'm still writing them and you can find them here: http://theaoidos.tumblr.com/.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The sprogs are going to be a little co-dependent for a while

**Author's Note:**

> Epilogue to White Picket Fences. The kids are going to be a little co-dependent for a while.
> 
> UPDATE: I no longer update the WPF drabbles on AO3, but I'm still writing them, and you can find the updated masterlist here: http://theaoidos.tumblr.com/post/59221248643/white-picket-fences-fic-masterlist

Eames sleeps deeply for a few glorious hours, sated from the slow, but passionate, roll in the hay with Arthur. They hadn’t wanted to wake the children, and they were both utterly exhausted from the previous day’s chaos, but they needed to touch and connect in that way after they’d nearly lost each other. Afterwards, Eames didn’t make a conscious decision to sleep, but rather passed out face-down on the bed—most likely a drooling, snoring mess. 

At some point, he’d had the good sense to pull his boxers back on, and it was a good thing too because around three in the morning, he feels a pair of small hands pushing at his shoulder. Eames grumbles a bit, and when he cracks his eyes open, he sees Max standing beside the nightstand.

"Can I sleep with you?" Max whispers.  

Eames rolls onto his back and then pats the space between him and Arthur to indicate permission. “Sure, ducky, c’mon,” he rasps, half-awake and dehydrated. 

Max is probably too old to keep sleeping with them, but after all the sprogs have been through, Eames isn’t about to adopt the facade of a parental authority figure. One more night in bed with his parents probably won’t permanently warp the boy.

Arthur stirs when Max climbs onto the bed, and though he probably isn’t fully awake, he throws his arm around the boy and pulls him to his chest. Max goes readily, nuzzling against his father’s chest. Eames watches a moment, happy and content, and then he promptly drops off again.

He sleeps maybe twenty minutes before another pair of tiny hands shove at his back. When he looks up, he expects to see Max again—maybe waking him for some food or a glass of water, but instead he sees Jack.

"Why does Max get to sleep with you and I don’t?" he asks, brow furrowed in consternation. 

Eames blinks dumbly because he really wasn’t expecting a pop quiz at—Eames squints at the bedside alarm clock—3:30 A.M. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to actually answer that question, or point out that Max has bad dreams whereas Jack has always been fine sleeping on his own, but he doubts the boy is actually looking for a rational conversation. Instead, he pulls back the blankets and pats the spot between Max and himself. When Jack climbs into bed beside him, Eames smoothes his hair back from his brow and kisses his forehead.

He can still get a few hours of sleep before the kids will wake him demanding breakfast. 

He can still get a few more hours.

Of course, he should have known that was a foolish dream. Half an hour later, he hears the soft voice of his daughter. “Dad….daddy…. _daddy_ ,” she chants until Eames opens his eyes and looks up at her.

"Yes, my sweet treasure?" he asks because, right, the children have been traumatized and will probably be a little co-dependent for a while. He looks over to Arthur and sees he’s buried under their boys—Max draped across his stomach, and Jack curled at his side. 

"Is there room for me?" Rose asks, and Eames pulls her into the bed without hesitation, causing her to erupt in giggles.

"There’s always room for you," he whispers and rolls her so she’s resting in the middle of the bed and Eames is nearly hanging off the edge. Ah, well. It’s just one night. Eames glances at the clock again and then rests his face close to his daughter’s on the pillow. "You want pancakes in the morning?"

Rose grins. “Chocolate chip?”

"Whatever you want," he whispers and kisses the tip of her nose.

They sleep like that in a great pile until the sun rises, and as predicted, Max wakes him with requests for food and juice. Eames can’t even be annoyed at the early hour or his lack of sleep because his family is reunited. They’ll have breakfast in the kitchen and the room will be a cacophony of voices, but all the noise will fade the moment he looks across the table and Arthur smiles at him.


	2. The five times the 3rd trimester cock blocked Arthur’s sex life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The five times the 3rd trimester cock blocked Arthur’s sex life.

Arthur is a Beluga Whale. The nurses at the hospital assure him the situation isn’t that dire, and actually he’s only gained thirty pounds, which is right in the middle of normal for a first-time pregnant omega, but he doesn’t believe them. None of his clothes fit anymore, and he  _waddles_ when he walks, and the current state of his world is just ridiculous, in his personal opinion. 

By some cruel twist of fate, however, he’s also insanely horny all the time. Dr. Ford says it’s a biological reaction to being pregnant. Arthur’s hormones are working in overdrive to maintain the bond with his mate throughout the pregnancy, and Arthur bitterly thinks  _of course it has to do with alphas._ It seems like his every impulse is simply a reaction to Eames’ presence, and with that bitter thought nestled in his brain, he slams the front door shut behind him and waddles into the kitchen to make a snack.

Eames hears the door slam shut, of course, but he doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Sometimes Arthur needs to get his aggression out in little meaningless ways: slamming doors, throwing pillows, shouting at that stupid squirrel in the front yard that keeps trying to raid their bird feeder. Little things. The black storm cloud hanging over his head inevitably passes, and when it does, Eames is always ready to gather Arthur in his arms and soothe away all the bad thoughts.

The thing is, Arthur doesn’t really have body issues. He was initially alarmed at the weight gain, but Eames’ reaction to his changing physique made him less self-conscious. Eames loves his huge, round belly, and his prominent breasts. 

"I like you this way," Eames whispers before he runs his tongue down the center of Arthur’s chest.

Arthur’s breath hitches in his throat and he tilts his head back so he’s looking at the ceiling inside of his mate. If he looks at Eames, he’s going to completely lose it. But then Eames cups his breast gently and runs his hot, wet tongue along his nipple, Arthur cries out—not in pleasure, but pain.

See, the problem is, even though he wants Eames  _all the time_ , his body is rebelling in other ways. 

"Your back?" Eames asks immediately, leaning back.

Arthur can only nod, his eyes clenched shut.

"Right, come on, darling," he whispers, carefully urging Arthur to lay on his side. Eames moves behind him and immediately digs his fingers into the knot of muscles right above Arthur’s tailbone. A cry of relief escapes his mouth, and Arthur clenches the sheets for leverage as he arches his spine. “Good?” Eames asks, his mouth pressed to the back of his head.

Arthur can only nod mutely. He feels like he might sob from relief. The back spasms have been excruciating, but luckily Eames massages have proven to be, in some cases, better than sex.

***

It’s Saturday, which is supposed to be date day, but Arthur’s body apparently never got the memo because his ankles are so swollen he can’t even get off the couch. Instead, his feet are propped up on Eames’ lap and his mate is rubbing them gently to restore circulation as they watch terrible dating shows on television. This one appears to take place on a bus and all the participants are in their twenties and terrible people.

"I hope these idiots don’t breed," Arthur says, completely serious.

Eames grins toothily. “So judgmental,” he teases, and when he presses his thumbs against a spot on Arthur’s ankle, the area stops tingling. 

"Oh, right there," he encourages and rolls his foot a bit. It’s no longer numb. Eames really does have magic fingers—that’s not just some stupid thing he says while trying to get into Arthur’s pants.

They’re quiet for a while as they watch the show devolve into drunken make-out sessions and screaming confrontations, and Arthur is feeling mildly depressed about missing out on date night, when suddenly the baby kicks. “Oh, shit,” he gasps, laughing when Eames looks at him, alarmed. “Sorry, your kid is kicking me.”

Eames face instantly brightens and he rests his hand against his stomach. They’re both anticipatorily silent until the baby kicks Eames’ palm directly. “Bloody hell!” he declares, delighted. “You’ve got a football player in there, for sure.”

Arthur grins. “If you mean American football, you’re right.”

"Don’t joke about that. You know I most certainly do  _not_ mean American football, Arthur,” Eames grumbles, but he goes back to rubbing his ankles dutifully.

***

The thing is, Arthur loves Eames. He adores him. He really does. And he adores the sex too, but lately, Eames’ dick really can’t compete with delicious, glorious food.

Luckily, his mate is also a fantastic chef in addition to being hot and a badass and a fiend in the sack. Arthur watches him from mission control on the couch, smiling softly to himself as Eames rushes about the kitchen in his apron. He may be thirty pounds bigger than before, with swollen ankles and a broken back, but at least he has a gorgeous man cooking for him.

"I love you," Arthur calls from the living room, and Eames smiles when he looks up.

"You’re just saying that because I’m about to ply you with chocolate and cheese."

Arthur grins and he gives an excited little wiggle. Eames is the absolute  _best_ cook. “That’s  _partly_ why, but I love you for other reasons, too.”

"Oh yes?" Eames responds as he opens the oven to check on the soufflé. "And what might those reasons be?"

Arthur tilts his head back against the armrest and hums thoughtfully, as if he really needs to think about it. “I love…that you’re a better shot than me…” he begins, and Eames pipes right up.

"We’re admitting that now, are we?"

"Shut up," Arthur laughs, smiling widely when he sees Eames offer him a cheeky look from the kitchen. "I love that I can always rely on you, and that you’re letting me be a brat right now."

"You’re the most wonderful brat I’ve ever known," he hears Eames say before one of the pans hisses atop the stove. He must be frying something. Arthur secretly hopes it’s the cheese he’s been promised.

He runs his hands along the bulge of his stomach thoughtfully. “You’re going to be a great dad,” he says, not fully meaning to say that part aloud, but also not sorry that he’s done so—especially when he looks up and sees Eames smiling at him—not grinning, but smiling, the way he only does when he’s really, really happy.

"I’m going to spoil the hell out of our kids," he crows unrepentantly.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Slow down, cowboy. Who said anything about more than one kid?”

***

Jack was by far the most difficult pregnancy, but that doesn’t mean Rose and Max were walks through the park. Arthur doesn’t get as big or as puffy while carrying Rose, but he does have one or two minor scares that rival months of laying on the couch, huge and unproductive.

He awakes one night short of breath, convinced he’s having a heart attack.

Eames watches him helplessly for a few seconds before he reaches for his cell phone and calls Dr. Ford, who assures them everything will be fine and shortness of breath is normal in the third trimester. As an omega male, Arthur has a uterus, which is expanding beneath his diaphragm, the muscle just below his lungs. Dr. Ford says things may improve once the baby settles deeper into his pelvis before delivery, but in the meantime, he should practice good posture—no more laying down on the couch, and he also needs to sleep with pillows propped up behind him.

"This sucks," Arthur grouses miserably as he sits up in bed against a wall of pillows. He’s never going to be able to sleep like this.

Eames, the asshole, is laying against a single pillow, but he remains awake in solidarity. “Remember that job in Ranong?”

Arthur groans in response. He got shot on that job, but they had to lay low because some local goons were looking for them. He’d been feverous and out of his mind from the pain for 72 hours. He’d nearly died, and Arthur had been extremely lucky the wound hadn’t gotten infected because then he’d most certainly have perished.

"Well, you slept during that," Eames says, and once Arthur realizes what he’s getting at, he rolls his eyes.

"Maybe you should shoot me then because that wasn’t  _natural sleep_ , Eames. I passed out.”

Eames rests his hand atop Arthur’s on the bed and laces their fingers. “I mean…if you can survive that, you can survive anything,” he says before succumbing to a yawn. “You’re the toughest bloke I know.”

Arthur can’t help but grin proudly at that admission.

***

Max is the easiest pregnancy, but again, only comparatively. The kid is also Lord of Braxton Hicks contractions that leave Arthur writhing in pain in bed. Dr. Ford ensures them that, yes, this too is normal and true labor contractions will get longer, stronger, and closer together when the time comes.

Poor Eames is left to care for the babies on his own much of the time, especially through Arthur’s third trimester, and the false contractions—which are full of _very real_ pain, thank you very much—leave the omega sapped of strength. They lay together in bed one evening after Jack and Rose have thankfully, mercifully, finally fallen asleep, and Arthur knows they should take the opportunity to have sex, but he can’t even lift his head off the pillow.

"Get naked," he mumbles.

Eames smirks, but doesn’t move. He must be exhausted. Arthur doesn’t think he’s seen him sit down once the whole day. “You first,” he orders. 

Neither of them move. 

Eventually, Eames manages to roll onto his side, but only to drape an arm around Arthur’s generous waist. He shifts a little to get comfortable, but moves carefully, afraid he’ll set off another contraction if he readjusts too quickly.

"This is the last one, babe," Arthur whispers—not out of anger, but fatigue.

He loves his babies, and he’ll love their youngest child, but he can’t go through this again. Arthur is in his mid-thirties now, which is late for an omega to carry children. They’ve been fortunate so far, but he doesn’t want to push their luck.

He misses his old life—namely, he misses his old body and being able to make love with Eames without having to worry about stuff like his back locking up or his hip slipping out of the socket—a horrifying discovery they made one fateful night when Arthur decided to be on top.

Thankfully, Dr. Ford hadn’t ask how the accident happened. He simply explained Arthur’s hips are expanding to accommodate the baby, and as such, his hips are prone to slipping.

He’s tired of feeling like he’s fragile and massive, all at once.

Eames rubs his back in slow, soothing circles. “The last one,” he promises. They’re both at their limit, and they want to focus on raising the kids. “You’ve been so brave,” he says and kisses Arthur’s brow in a way that makes a shiver run up his spine.

He knows the words are sincere. Eames has said many times that he could never have carried a child—that it had to be Arthur because Arthur was the one with the higher pain tolerance. He’d tried to explain it’s an omega thing—all omegas have a high tolerance for pain because they’re the ones who have the babies, but still…the compliment is nice to hear.

"You’re not disappointed?" he asks softly because that thought had occurred to him. Maybe Eames wants a bigger family. Maybe he’d been hoping to find a mate who is stronger and more capable of bearing children than Arthur is. It’s a stupid thought, really, but the hormones are making him sulky and paranoid.

Eames cups the side of his face and runs the pad of his thumb over Arthur’s cheekbone gently. “How could I ever be disappointed when I have you?”

"Jesus, you’re going to give me diabetes," Arthur grins, unable to help himself because beneath the layers of hormones and pregnancy weight, he’s still the same point man who loves to give his forger endless shit.

The crooked grin Arthur adores breaks across Eames’ face. “Oh good. There he is. I thought my Arthur was gone forever.” His husband reaches down to tickle his side carefully, mindful not to handle Arthur too roughly. He’s at the stage where any little motion might set off another Braxton Hicks episode, or spur on a very real contraction too early. Eames grows serious when he looks back at his face. “Darling, you’ve given me…well, a  _life_. How could I ever be disappointed?”

Arthur’s fingers curl against Eames’ shirt, pulling gently, and he watches the fabric fold around his fingers because if he looks at his mate, he’ll start to cry. Arthur knows Eames loves his children—more than anything, but not more than him. Sometimes, when he pauses to think of how much he cares for Eames, he’s left a little lightheaded and breathless, and he knows for a fact Eames is capable of loving him more than Arthur can ever love him in return—not for want of trying, but because Eames’ capacity for love is simply greater in all things.

His mate is a force of nature: brash, big, and bold—the center of Arthur’s universe. His sun.

"Eames," he says quietly, overcome by the enormity of what he feels.

Eames covers his hands with his own and carefully peels them from his chest so he can lace their fingers. “I know,” he murmurs, and Arthur realizes he doesn’t need to say anything. Eames is beside him, bearing witness to all his memories and desires. This is what being bonded means—he’ll die without Eames in his life, but together, their union is unimaginably strong. When he can’t speak, it doesn’t matter because Eames already  _knows_. He knows Arthur loves him. He knows Arthur will always love him and their children.

They don’t speak. Eames drags him forward carefully and presses their lips together. Arthur exhales and parts his mouth, his eyes slipping shut, mind and body separating just for a moment—just so he can enjoy the embrace unencumbered from physical limitations.

One day, he’ll be the old Arthur again—quick, cunning, and lean, but in the meantime, Eames will take care of him.


	3. Teenager!Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had a couple requests for a Rose-centered drabble and a follow-up to WPF where we get to see the kids as teenagers, so I combined those requests into the following piece.

The door to Rose’s bedroom is shut because Arthur said she’s allowed that privilege. Jack and Max lost that right earlier in the day when they got into a fight and knocked over a desk in their room. The boys usually get along these days, but sometimes they erupt in spectacular fights. Eames says it’s because Jack is an alpha, and that alphaness is making itself more known these days. After the fight, Max knocks on her door, and when she says he can come in, he trudges to the bed and dramatically throws himself across the mattress.

She immediately knows he’s invaded her space in order to sulk.

"I wish we shared a room," he says.

Rose had been watching Hulu clips on her laptop, but she pauses the video and turns from her desk so she can look at Max. “You can stay in here for a while, if you want.” They’d done that a lot when they were younger—whenever Jack was being mean or too alpha-y, Max would sneak into her room and they’d talk for hours hunkered under her blankets. 

Max is thirteen now, so he doesn’t do that anymore. It’s for the best, but sometimes she misses being partners in crime. 

"Yeah?" he says, perking up a bit as he picks his head up off the pillows.

"Sure," she says, grinning, "But if you want Jack to drive you anywhere when he gets his permit, I’d make up with him now."

Max groans. Jack is fifteen, which means he starts driver’s ed next year, which means he’s one step closer to borrowing Arthur or Eames’ car, and getting another notch on his Totalitarian belt. It’s bad enough he’s the only other alpha in the house besides Eames, but soon he’ll have sole reign of the car—the ultimate trump card in all of their future fights.

Max and Jack love each other, but this is the inevitable reality of sibling alphas and omegas living together. Jack only has a few more years under their roof, and then he’ll have to leave for college, and then he won’t be allowed to come home until he’s mated. An unmated alpha living with an unmated omega past the age of eighteen is unheard of, even if they’re related by blood. Max and Rose will be able to stay home a little longer, if they choose to do so. 

Rose can’t wait to leave. She loves her parents, and her brothers, but she wants to see and explore the world. Her aunt Ariadne has already said she can go stay with her in Paris when she’s old enough, and Rose has been counting down the days since that promise was made.

Max will probably stay home the longest because that’s what omegas traditionally do, and he’s safer with their parents than he is roaming the world unmated.

For the millionth time, Rose finds herself thanking the universe she wasn’t born an omega. She may eventually mate one day—maybe even to an alpha, but there’s not the same societal pressure for her to do so as there is on Max. Their family doctor recently diagnosed Max as fertile, the most prized status for an omega, but it means he’ll have to deal with alpha suitors, and Rose can’t imagine a more unappealing prospect. Other than her brother and her father, she’s found most alphas are bullheaded narcissists.

"You want to sleep over at Hannah’s with me tonight?" she offers, mostly because her brother looks absolutely  _miserable_ , and when he lingers in her room this long, it usually means he’d rather burn himself alive than see Jack.

Hannah has been Rose’s best friend since middle school, and now they’re Freshmen together in high school. Max enters high school next year, and he’s made no secret of his hesitancy. Arthur offered to home school him, but Rose convinced Max to give public school a try. It’s not that her brother hates people, exactly, but he’s shy, and he needs other people to bring him out of his shell. She knows if he stays at home, he’ll end up isolated. Besides, Rose isn’t worried about Max. Though they fight and butt heads constantly, she’s seen Jack have Max’s back on many occasions—sometimes when her younger brother wasn’t there to witness the exchange.

Jack won’t let anyone mess with Max, and after he graduates, Rose will take up the mantle of guardian.

Since he knows he’ll be attending high school, Max has been hanging out with Rose and her friends a bit more. He knows and likes Hannah, and he perks up a bit at the offer. “Really?”

Rose shrugs. “Sure.” She doesn’t see why the offer would be a problem. It’s not like Max is an alpha. Hannah is a beta like Rose, so she doesn’t see why any of their parents would have any objections. Just to be sure, though, she walks into the living room where her parents are watching television. Arthur is seated on the couch and Eames is stretched out beside him, head on his mate’s lap.

"Daddy," she says—the title she uses interchangeably for both her fathers ( _daddy_ , not  _dad_ , because she wants something this time).

"Uh-oh," Eames mumbles from his comfy place on the couch, having recognized the moochy nickname for what it is. "What do you want?" he says in a teasing way that makes Rose grin.

"Nothing major. Can Max sleep over at Hannah’s with me?"

Arthur runs his fingers through Eames’ hair, and Eames stretches out luxuriously in a way that reminds her of a big cat. “Hmm…darling?”

Arthur shrugs minutely and gazes over his shoulder at Rose. “I don’t see why not, but call us when you get there. If Max wants to come home, I’ll come get him.”

Her brother still sometimes has nightmares, especially when he’s staying in unfamiliar locations, but Max knows Hannah, and besides, Rose will be there too. “Sure,” she says smiling widely. “Absolutely, yeah. Thank you! I love you!” she calls, hearing her fathers chuckle as she turns to book back into her room to tell Max the good news, and to call Hannah to give her a heads up.

***

Hannah lives close enough to their house that they can walk over, and Rose and Max venture out giddily, excited at the prospect of being alone (together) for a night of semi-chaperoned fun. Hannah’s parents have a finished basement where they will set up their sleeping bags and watch TV and movies until the early hours of the morning, plying themselves with sugary food and excitedly discuss all kinds of things. 

The mood sours when Hannah answers the door looking grim.

"What’s wrong?" Rose asks, frowning as she adjusts the shoulder strap of her duffle bag.

"Um, nothing. Come in," Hannah mumbles, stepping aside so Rose and Max can enter and she closes the door behind them.

"Hey, Mrs. O’Brien," Rose says when they walk through the kitchen and she sees Hannah’s mom standing at the counter. She looks thinner than Rose remembers, and she’s smoking a cigarette—something Arthur would never have allowed in a million years inside the house. Her platinum blonde hair is piled on her head in a haphazard way.

"Hey, kids," she replies faintly. "You let me know if you need anything, okay?"

Hannah says nothing as she walks through the kitchen to the basement door. It’s not until they’re at the bottom of the steps, and out of earshot of her parents, that she sighs loudly and throws herself down on some pillows scattered in front of the TV. “Sorry, guys. Things are weird right now.”

Max casts a worried look to Rose, but he says nothing as he sets down his bag. Rose sits nearby Hannah. “What happened?”

Hannah sighs and picks at the sleeve of her hoodie. “Shit, this embarrassing. Um…I think my parents are getting divorced.”

A stunned silence settles across the room. Rose doesn’t think that’s embarrassing. She thinks it’s terrible, and she feels sorry for Hannah. Her parents might not have been the most PDA-type couple, but they didn’t seem _unhappy_ , per se. Besides, they were the house that always throws the big parties, inviting the whole neighborhood to celebrate. “ _Why_?” she asks.

Max stands awkwardly by the stairs, probably contemplating walking back up to call Arthur, but Rose shoots him a look that immediately inspires him to sit down on a vacant cushion. 

"You can’t tell anyone," Hannah prefaces, staring hard at Rose until she nods, and then casting the same withering look at Max until he mumbles acquiescence. When she speaks again, her gaze is cast at her sleeve, and her cheeks are flushed. "This lady kept calling the house. My mom got super pissed."

Rose frowns deeply. She doesn’t need Hannah to spell out what happened for her, but she also doesn’t know what to say to comfort her friend. Divorce and infidelity are foreign concepts she’s never once had to worry about with her own parents. If anything, she’s dealt with a unique breed of embarrassment for the opposite reasons—her parents are so in love that they’ve remained affectionate through decades of knowing one another, and raising three children. Rose has suffered the humiliation of walking into a room with her friends to see her parents in the middle of a chaste kiss. Although, upon reflection, faced with Hannah’s grief, that doesn’t seem like such a terrible crime now.

She remembers walking into the kitchen, home early from the school one day, to find Arthur seated on the kitchen counter, Eames between his legs, as they kissed. At the time, she’d screeched and ran into her room, shouting,  _Why do you guys have to do that in the kitchen? You guys are gross!_  But now, she feels grateful that Eames has never had a wandering eye. Her father gazes at Arthur as though he’s the only star in the sky, and she’s never really appreciated that phenomenon until this moment.

She can’t imagine what it’s like to know and love another person as long as her fathers have known and loved each other, but she tries to empathize. She tries to imagine what it would be like to work in a dangerous profession (she’s never gotten all the details out of them, but after Jack’s kidnapping, she managed to piece enough information together to know it’s extremely sketchy stuff), while also raising three kids. The O’Briens just have Hannah and their world is falling apart, but her fathers’ union has somehow never wavered.

They fight, sure, but Rose has never for a second feared for the integrity of their family. 

"I’m really sorry, Hannah," she whispers, reaching forward to squeeze her friend’s hand.

***

The rest of the night is subdued, but enjoyable, and in the morning Rose and Max walk back to their house. They walk side-by-side along the street, Rose occasionally glancing behind them to make sure there are no cars coming. 

"You don’t think that would ever happen to our dads, right?" Max finally asks.

Max voicing her internal concerns makes Rose tense up slightly, and her knee-jerk reaction is to respond sarcastically. “When has a woman ever called the house asking for dad?” she says, rolling her eyes.

"You know what I mean," Max says, frowning.

Rose sighs. She does know what he means. It’s the greatest fear of any kid, she supposes, to have their family break apart. If Arthur and Eames ever got divorced, she may be separated from her brothers. There wouldn’t be anymore Christmases together, or family movie nights. Things would be different and awful.

Her parents seem very much in love, but she doesn’t know if everything is okay with them. They’re incredibly engaged parents, but their relationship has always been kept largely private from them—deliberately so, in many respects. They kiss and touch a lot, which Rose thinks must be a good sign. She doesn’t remember Mr. O’Brien ever hugging Mrs. O’Brien’s waist and kissing her neck like Eames does to Arthur so often. Hannah never told her stories of her dad giving her mom little surprise gifts like Arthur does with Eames all the time.

Maybe her parents are special—the rare exception to the rule of monotony and banality. 

But still, she’s a little worried

***

When they get home, Rose finds a note on the counter from Arthur saying they’ve gone out grocery shopping, but they’ll be home soon.

Jack is home and sitting in the living room, playing one of his video games with lots of explosions and gun fire. He pauses the game when he notices Rose and Max standing in the kitchen.

"Have fun at Hannah’s?" he asks, apparently over the fight with Max because the question is directed at him.

Max shrugs a little. “I guess. It was weird.”

"Why weird?"

Rose tells Jack everything— up to and including her own fears about Arthur and Eames.

"Do you think…that could happen to us?" she asks hesitantly, experiencing a combination of anxiety and shame for even considering the possibility.

As usual, her older brother is free from angst and cuts to the core of the issue when he smirks. “No fucking way.”

Rose can practically feel Max brighten at his side. Jack has a way of instilling limitless, sometimes naive, amounts of confidence in Max. But in this case, the cockiness is welcome and acts as a pressure release valve. “Really?” he asks, so much relief in his voice that Rose feels guilty for not having soothed her brother more during the walk home. She sometimes forgets how much Max worries about everything, but especially their parents.

"Are you joking?" Jack laughs, and Rose can’t help but smile a little at the sound. "They’re lost without each other. Remember last month when dad went to South America?"

Rose nods slightly. Arthur had taken an unusually long business trip that lasted two weeks.

Jack gestures with his game controller like the rest should be self-evident, but then he adds with a roll of his eyes. “Okay,  _well_ , remember how dad handled the situation?” Jack asks, referring this time to Eames.

Rose reflects, a slow grin blossoming across her lips. Eames had been a walking disaster. He’d tried to get the kids to watch movies with him every night, even when they were trying to study or go out with their friends, and he’d practically leapt off the couch whenever his cell phone rang and it was a call from Arthur. He’d been spacey and distant, and visibly lonely right up until Arthur walked through the front door and Eames greeted him like an eager puppy, picking him up and kissing his face. 

Jack sees the moment it registers with Rose. “Exactly. It’s an alpha thing. Dad can’t live without his mate. Same with omegas. You’ll know that when you get bonded,” he says, looking at Max.

Max makes a disgusted face. “I’m never getting bonded.”

Jack laughs and unpauses his game. “You say that now, but it’ll happen. And you’ll have like a million pups and I’ll be the coolest uncle ever,” he says and returns his attention to mowing down pedestrians and stealing their wallets.

"Ew, no!" Max shouts and runs for his room, leaving Rose to stand in the kitchen, laughing and relieved.


	4. Max visits the fertility doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max visits the fertility doctor.

When Max turns thirteen, Arthur schedules a doctor’s appointment for him. His dad acts weird all day before they leave for the clinic, pacing around the house, and snapping at Eames when his other father offers to join them.

"No, you wouldn’t understand. It has to be me," he hears Arthur whisper-shout in the kitchen.

Max doesn’t know what’s going on, but he’s nervous, and so he copes in the usual manner by dressing in a nice sweater vest and freshly pressed slacks, and carefully parting his hair with a comb to tame his curls. Then he sits on the edge of his bed and waits until it’s 12:30, whereupon he stands, walks into the living room and announces: “Time to go.”

Arthur is seated on the couch beside Eames and they’re talking quietly, but he leaps to his feet like a cat the second he sees Max. “Yes, let’s go,” he says, casting a glance to the clock in the kitchen. “You’re right, it’s time to go.”

He’s fidgeting and feeling around his slacks for his car keys in a twitchy way that freaks out Max. His father is usually impossible to rattle, but he looks downright unnerved today. When Max looks over at the couch, Eames gives him a little encouraging smile. “Keys are on the counter, love,” he says helpfully.

Arthur looks to the island where his keys are indeed resting. “Oh right. Thanks,” he says, grabbing them and heading for the garage.

"Everything will be all right, Arthur!" he hears Eames call, but they’re already in the garage then and his other father doesn’t answer.

It’s when they’re in the car, driving to the doctor’s office, that Max finally breaks. “Why do I have to go to the doctor?” he asks, eyeing his father’s profile.

His dad is largely unchanged from how he looked when Max was a baby. He has more lines around his eyes, and a few streaks of gray at his temples, but other than that, he’s the same. His father’s consistency is an anchor for Max, so his unusually tense demeanor now is frightening. Normally, Max doesn’t ask questions, and he just goes with the flow, but he can’t do that today.

Not when everything is so… _weird_.

Arthur’s fingers tighten around the wheel and he swallows thickly. Upon closer inspection, Max sees he’s unbuttoned his collar—a form of sartorial sloppiness his father would never have permitted under normal circumstances. Something big is definitely up. 

"Uh…well, you know how I’m an omega?" Arthur asks, and when he sees Max nod in response, he continues: "And you know how you’re an omega?"

Max simply furrows his brows and stares at Arthur, wondering why his father is speaking to him like he’s six-years-old. When Arthur notices the scowl, he nods apologetically. 

"Well, you’ll have babies like I had you guys one day," he adds, and Max rolls his eyes. He knows that. Boy, does he  _ever_  know that. Jack has been teasing him mercilessly ever since Arthur and Eames sat them down for the birds and the bees conversation last year. 

"I know this stuff," Max says, sighing in frustration and tugging at his seatbelt.

Arthur nods again, fingers white as his grip on the wheel tightens. “We’re just…making sure everything is all right.” Max stares at him in confusion and Arthur wets his lips with the tip of his tongue right before he flips on his turn signal. “The doctor will make sure you can have babies.”

Max is quiet as Arthur pulls into the parking lot as he dissects his father’s words. As Arthur drives up and down the aisles looking for a spot, he pipes up: “I don’t want kids.”

Slowly, a smile curves Arthur’s mouth. “I said that too, but this is important, baby. If you’re fertile, you’ll attract better mates.”

Max glares down at his shoes. “I don’t want a mate either.”

He’s thirteen, and it’s maddening that everyone already seems to have all these plans for him. It’s like he doesn’t even have a choice in the matter.

Arthur finally finds a spot and sighs as pulls into the vacant lot. He’s quiet until they’re outside the car, and he locks the doors before they head toward the building. “One day, your dad and I won’t be around, and I want to make sure you have someone to look after you,” he says.

Max is quiet the rest of the walk. He hates thinking about stuff like that—about there ever being a day where the family won’t be together, living under the same roof. He refuses to consider the possibility even though it’s obvious Jack will leave for college in a couple years, and Rose can’t wait to travel the world. Max has no desire to do those things. He’s quite content at home with his parents, and the outside world oftentimes overwhelms and confuses him. He doesn’t get why his dad is making this fertility business, and courtship process, such a big deal. 

Fifteen minutes later, he’s dressed in a paper gown, balanced on the edge of a cold metal table, and Arthur is seated on a plastic chair in the corner of the room, reading a pamphlet about the omega reproductive system. 

Doctor Ford had taken a blood sample and performed an ultrasound “just to see if everything is in tip top shape,” he’d explained before gazing at Max from beneath his bushy, white eyebrows and stating: “You know, I delivered you and your siblings.”

Max eyed him warily. “Yeah?”

Doctor Ford nodded seriously. “Your father almost fainted.”

Max blinked and glanced over to Arthur, who smirked and shook his head. “Not me.  _Eames_ almost fainted.”

Now, they’re waiting for the doctor to return with the results, and Max can’t sit still. He still resents being here at all, and he swings his legs back and forth, fidgeting as he looks around. Arthur eventually notices, sets aside the pamphlet, and looks at him. “Do you know why it’s important to have a good mate?”

Max shrugs.  _Great. More mate talk_. “To have babies?”

Arthur smiles slightly. “It’s more than that. Some people call it soul mates. Other people call it soul-bonding, but…it means we’re connected in a very special way now. We make each other better.”

Max gazes down at his hands. He knows this stuff. He’s always known his dads love each other a lot. Eames can barely handle it when Arthur leaves to do the grocery shopping, let alone when he has to leave for business or something. He also knows his fathers are different than the non-ABO families in the neighborhood, but Max never knew it was because of the soul-bonding whatever. He thought it simply meant they are really, really in love.

When he looks up, Arthur is gazing intensely back at him. “I want that for you, baby. I want someone to look after you.”

He’s quiet for a moment before clearing his throat. “Well…if I have a soul mate, or whatever, won’t they find me even if I’m not fertile?”

Arthur smiles thinly, a little grim. “It doesn’t work that way. When you’re in heat, your mate will smell you. Your mate can smell everything, up to and including if you’re fertile.”

"So they won’t want me if I can’t have babies?" Max asks, brow furrowing again at the injustice of this whole biologically rigged game. First, he did’t ask to be an omega, and now, if he’s not the right  _kind_ of omega, he’s doomed to—what?—wander the planet alone?

Arthur shakes his head. “Not exactly. But, if you are fertile, you’ll be well positioned to pick from the best group of alphas. You’re from a good family, Eames and I are well-connected, so you’ll be fine,” Arthur concludes, smiling in his prim, confident way that means he has pie charts and bar graphs somewhere as proof if Max asks to see it.

Max sighs—huffs, really. He resents being here.  _Jack_ doesn’t have to do this. _Rose_ doesn’t do this. He’s thirteen! He won’t even experience his first heats for a few more years. “I don’t see why I have to worry about this stuff,” he grumbles, sulky and cold in his paper gown.

Clasping his hands in front of him, Arthur leans against his knees and looks over at him. “Because no one ever explained this to me, Max,” he states quietly, which grabs Max’s attention. His father never talks about his childhood—or his own parents. He’s afraid to speak, lest he shatter the moment and Arthur stops talking. “I had no idea how to control my heat cycles. I’m very, very lucky it was your father with me when I went into heat because…” he trails off, staring across the room, then seems to snap out of it when he shakes his head. “Anyway, I don’t want you to repeat my mistakes. You deserve a proper courting process, and you should know about your cycles and pregnancy because alphas certainly don’t know this stuff.”

He folds the pamphlet he’d been reading and tucks it into his pocket, and Max knows he’s going to find the literature later on his pillow. 

***

Doctor Ford returns eventually and smiles brightly. “Well, like father, like son, ay?” he crows and slaps down Max’s file on the counter. 

Arthur springs to his feet and immediately starts reading through the paperwork. The doctor lets him because he’s probably used to his father’s finicky, hands-on approach. “So he’s fertile?” he asks urgently.

"Absolutely, yes," the doctor responds, pleased, grinning over at Max like he expects him to be jumping up and down for joy, or something. "You’ll have lots of pups one day, boy."

Max drops his gaze and makes a face, but neither of them see it. When he looks up again, Arthur is smiling brightly.

***

Max tries to convey his displeasure with this news by sulking and remaining silent during the ride home. He doesn’t think his dad gets the message, though, because he’s beside himself with joy.

"This is so great, Max," he insists. "You have no idea how much easier this will make things. God, I’m so  _relieved_.”

Max slumps in his seat. This whole thing is humiliating. He’s a private person to begin with, but now he has a whole army—not just his immediate family, but also doctors, and soon  _suitors—_ who will be vying for him in the most intimate way imaginable. Meanwhile, he hasn’t even had his first kiss, and yet his nosy brother knows every detail of his anatomy. It’s  _gross_.

When they arrive back home, Eames is standing in the kitchen. His fathers lock eyes, and when Eames sees Arthur smiling, he shouts triumphantly: “I bloody knew it! I told you, didn’t I? I told you,” he laughs and grabs Arthur, hugging him tightly.

Arthur laughs happily and wraps his arms around Eames’ neck, holding him as the alpha twirls them around. 

Max stares at them, stunned. He really can’t work his brain around why his fertility is being treated like a family victory. Eames, apparently missing his death glare, ruffles his hair. “Well done, ducky,” he says fondly, as though Max has actually accomplished something—as though he willed the planets to align and make him capable of bearing children.

"M’going to bed," he grumbles, even though it’s the early afternoon, and even though he isn’t tired. He stalks to his room and slams the door behind him.

From the other side of the door, he hears Eames say: “I’ll go. I’ll talk to him,” and then a soft knock.

Max throws himself onto his bed and sighs loudly. He wants everyone to leave him alone, but despite this overwhelming urge, he responds: “Come in.”

His father stands in the doorway for a beat, big enough to fill the space completely, before he moves into the room and closes the door behind him. “Why’re you cross?” he asks, typically cutting to the point immediately. Eames walks over to the bed and sits at the foot.

Max swallows the lump in his throat, pissed off when he feels like he might cry, and he’s not sure why. Eames, sensing his distress, grips his ankle and squeezes it gently, which only makes the impulse to cry stronger. His father is a kind man, one of the few alphas Max has encountered that he not only loves, but also genuinely  _likes_. He briefly wonders if that’s the class of alpha Arthur had been talking about. Maybe because he’s fertile, he’ll attract nice alphas like Eames. The thought if somewhat encouraging.

"I hate all of this…I wish everyone would leave me alone," he admits quietly, his face warm and gaze blurry when tears form in his eyes.

Eames smiles sympathetically. “I know, ducky. Your dad’s a planner, though. He wants to make sure you’re sorted.”

"But he didn’t plan for you, and you guys met, so why can’t I just…be like you guys?" he asks, his voice raising as his frustration spills forth.

His father laughs, and then covers his mouth, rubbing at his jaw. “Oh my days. Max, you don’t want to be like us. I’m very lucky your dad took pity on a lonely alpha and married me.”

Max feels inexplicably annoyed at him. “That’s not true,” he says miserably and then throws up his hands. “Why’s dad being so crazy about this?”

Eames sobers and looks down at the bed’s comforter. He appears to be mulling something over in his head before he sighs and looks up at him. “Max, your dad just wants the best for you. He never had anyone to explain it to him, and that can be really scary. I know none of this stuff interests you now, but it will one day, and you’ll be glad your crazy dad arranged all of this.”

His father smiles gently and squeezes his foot. When he was little, Eames would tickle him mercilessly, especially his feet, and Max would squeal and laugh himself sick. The memory soothes him a bit and he returns the smile, albeit weakly. He still doesn’t fully understand, but he trusts—he trusts his dads, and he knows deep inside his heart that Arthur must mean well because Arthur always protects him.

"Do I really have to date a bunch of alphas?" he asks, only joking a little. The prospect of having to date at all makes Max unspeakably nervous. Outside of his family, he doesn’t really have much interaction with other people.

Eames smirks and squeezes his foot. “Oi, we’re not all bad,” he grumbles, groaning as he stands up off the bed. “Want enchiladas for dinner?”

Max instantly perks up. Enchiladas are his favorite. “Really?”

"I’ll see what I can do," Eames says conspiratorially, winking at Max before he slips out of the room.


	5. Max gets courted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max gets courted.
> 
> The role of Ravi is played by Sendhil Ramamurthy because splooge.
> 
> Heads up: POV jumps around a bit.

For three years, Max’s status as a fertile omega isn’t really a big deal. The household carries on as usual: Jack applies to the best universities, and is enthusiastically accepted by all of them because he’s one of the best high school quarterbacks in the country, and Rose eagerly plots with Aunt Ariadne about her trip next year to Paris. 

And Max…Well, Max doesn’t make plans because he’s not sure what’s supposed to come next for him. He’ll finish high school, but after that, he hasn’t thought about specific schools, even though he has the highest GPA in his class and recently won the school science fair after he designed a plastic-eating microbe that Max doesn’t think is a big deal, but the school staff (and national media) apparently thought differently. Arthur framed all the articles about Max’s invention and hung them on his wall, so he finally had personal victory decorations to rival his brother’s medals and trophies.

Opportunities for scholarships begin rolling in after that, but Max is unsure he wants to travel far from home. And besides, any attraction the idea of liberation held for Max all but vanishes when he experiences his first heat. 

It’s terrifying, even though he ultimately doesn’t end up remembering much of it. Max can only recall what happened in flashes—Arthur’s voice saying, “Go. I have him.  _Go_ ,” to someone, maybe Eames, which makes sense because Max can’t be around alphas, regardless of who they are, right now. He can’t see clearly, but Max can  _smell_ everything, and when he opens his mouth to analyze the air, the alpha’s scent slams into the sensitive Jacobson’s organ located at the top of his mouth and he moans loudly.

"Eames,  _go_ ,” Arthur hisses again, and after that, thankfully, the smell is gone.

His pajamas are soaked from sweat, and he’s writhing on the bed, and clawing at the sheets as Arthur tries to pin his wrists down.

There’s a horrible noise that sounds like the groaning hull of a ship, and it takes Max ages to realise it’s  _him—_ he’s moaning pitifully through clenched teeth because  _everything_ hurts, especially the insistent, throbbing sensation deep inside his body. 

"Shh, baby. I’m here," Arthur whispers, a reassurance that comforts Max for a split second before the pain returns and he howls.

This goes on for  _days_ , and afterwards, Max thinks he now understands his father’s paranoia about finding him a protective mate. He tries to imagine Arthur young, his age maybe, all alone and in heat—not entirely sure what was happening to him, and so vulnerable to attacks from predatory alphas. The idea of wandering into the outside world is a terrifying prospect, even if he’s armed with suppressants. 

Max folds up the scholarship offers and tucks them away in his desk drawer.

Arthur must notice the pile of paperwork has vanished, but he doesn’t say anything.

***

Once the first heat is over, Arthur and Eames begin arrangements to invite their favorite alpha suitors over to meet Max. It’s a ridiculous state of affairs, really. Whenever Max wanders into the living room, his parents are seated in front of the coffee table, dozens of open files placed before them with photos of the various candidates. Whenever Max tries to steal a peek, his parents chase him from the room, reminding him he’s not supposed to see the suitors—that  _sight_ will actually have very little to do with his ultimate decision. It’s all about  _scent_.

Max usually ends up sulking in his room.

It takes his dads a month to whittle down the list to two of their favorite alphas, and another few weeks to work out travel arrangements with the alphas’ guardians. Arthur seems nervous again, which sets Max on edge, as he watches his father lay out a brand new suit on the bed.

"Do I get to know anything about him?" Max asks, almost moving to bite his nails, but stopping the last second when Arthur sends a death glare his way. He sits on his hands so he won’t bite them. It’s a bad habit, but he only does it when he’s extremely unnerved. Like now, for example.

Arthur has two ties in his hands, and he’s alternating placing them against the dress shirt to see which one goes better with the jacket. “His name is Jun,” he says eventually, and Max perks up because this might be his future mate, after all. He should probably pay attention to the little details, like the man’s name. Arthur sets down the ties and looks at him, an excited gleam in his eyes. “He’s the son of a friend of mine, a man named Saito. He’s a very wealthy executive. They’re an extremely respected family.”

Max’s throat is dry, and when he tries to swallow, his Adam’s apple bobs futilely.  Arthur must notice his distress because he walks over to Jack’s bed—or his old bed, anyway, and sits beside Max, wrapping an arm around his waist to give him a comforting squeeze. “He’s very handsome,” Arthur whispers, smiling when the extra detail inspires Max to grin weakly.  _Well, handsome is good, anyway._

***

His first meeting with Jun Saito isn’t a total disaster, but that is probably because the alpha cuts it mercifully short.

As promised, the man is indeed handsome and regal, and polite in an effortless way that speaks of years of grooming and training to be the future ruler of the planet. Confronted with his confidence, Max feels like a bumbling little kid, unsure of how to act or the right thing to say.

Jun is 20-years-old, and currently training to take over his father’s massive energy company. He’s an aficionado of classical music, opera, and fine cuisine—all of which Max knows nothing about, so their conversation is limited to niceties and painfully general observations. He can tell immediately that there is no chemistry between them, and Jun is treating the hour like he’s meeting any other business colleague he is required to treat with respect. That’s not to say Jun seems like a jerk. In fact, he appears to be a kind man, but Max can’t get past his own feelings of inadequacy, and spends the whole time imagining how disappointed his parents are going to be that he’s apparently no match for first-tier alphas.

After Jun leaves, Max goes straight to his room and closes the door. 

No one disturbs him.

About a week later, Mr. Saito himself graces their little home to deliver the news Max knew was coming. Eames is out running errands, but Arthur doesn’t seem concerned by his absence, which tells Max immediately this isn’t going to be a courtship proposal. Both his parents would need to be present for something like that. The whole situation reeks of rejection.

Dressed in a suit that probably cost as much as their house, Mr. Saito looks at Arthur and says, “I don’t think it’s a good match,” and the worst part is Arthur doesn’t look surprised in the slightest.

"I agree," he says, smiling softly. "I appreciate the opportunity, anyway."

Max watches the two men stand and speak in lowered voices as they walk toward the door.

"You’re well?" Mr. Saito asks his father.

Arthur smiles. “I am. Thanks for coming. You didn’t have to.”

"These things should be settled in person."

Then, Mr. Saito is gone, and Max wants to disappear into the upholstery of the couch. Arthur slowly walks back into the living room and sighs when he sees Max slumped over, dejected. 

"Baby, that was our first try," he says, smiling, but sadly, in the way that doesn’t reach his eyes. Arthur walks over to the couch and sits beside him. His father reaches up and gently pushes the fringe off his forehead and leans forward to kiss his brow. "It’s his loss."

Max scoffs so loudly he almost snorts. “Yeah, right.  _His_ loss. I’m a real catch.”

Arthur sobers and frowns deeply at him, and this time, the expression most definitely reaches his eyes. “Hey,” he says and grips Max by the biceps so he’s forced to look at his father. “Any alpha would be lucky to have you.”

Max doesn’t believe the words for a second, but he wants to be alone, so he forces a smile. “Thanks,” he whispers, and once Arthur has released him, he climbs to his feet, and retreats back to his room to stew in his misery.

***

The second date is worse.

He’s some brawny alpha—blond, well over six-foot, recently recruited by Ohio State to start as quarterback. Drew, the alpha, knows his brother, so at least they’re able to make idle chitchat about that for a while, but the whole time Drew seems bored and keeps looking around the room instead of at Max.

He finally focuses, however, when Arthur walks into the adjacent kitchen to get a glass of water.

Then, Drew perks right up and openly  _stares_ at his father like Max isn’t sitting right there—like his father  _isn’t_ a happily mated omega. 

He’s too stunned to speak, but luckily he doesn’t have to because Eames walks into the room just in time to see the absurdly disrespectful display, and nearly breaks Drew’s neck when he grabs the back of it and drags him from the house.

"If you ever come back," he hears his father shout on the front lawn, "I’ll tear out your bloody throat!"

Max, frightened by his father’s anger, and humiliated by yet another rejection, flees to his room and hides.

This time, Arthur does try to speak with him. He knocks tentatively at the door and calls his name, but Max burrows under the blankets and refuses to answer.

***

Eames sits on the edge of their bed and stares down at his hands. There’s some blood under his fingernails, but he can’t remember how it got there. It must be Drew’s, though. “We’re making a mess of this, aren’t we?” he asks, looking up when the bed dips slightly beside him.

Arthur smiles thinly. “A little, but we couldn’t have known,” he says, slowly placing their palms together and lacing their fingers. 

Eames sighs and squeezes his mate’s hand. “No alpha is good enough for him.”

His mate shifts and moves closer so he can rest his head against Eames’ shoulder. “I agree,” he whispers.

Eames remains quiet as he gazes down at their threaded fingers. He doesn’t know how to express how frightened he is to Arthur. He hates this whole process—the idea of sending Max away in the care of some alpha he barely knows. “We alphas are bad news,” he says, attempting a joking, jovial manner, but the statement comes out in a hoarse whisper.

“ _You’re_  not,” Arthur counters.

"I am, darling," he says, turning just a little so he can kiss his forehead. "I stole you," Eames whispers. "I stole you away."

Arthur moves, and with his free hand, runs his fingertips beneath the open space of Eames’ collar, tracing the tattoo peaking out from beneath the fabric. His hand finally comes to rest on the spot directly above Eames’ heart. “You didn’t steal me,” Arthur says, smiling. “I gave myself to you.”

Eames doesn’t know what to say to that, so he leans forward a couple inches and pressed his lips against Arthur’s mouth.

***

Yusuf, the prat, thinks the Drew story is  _hilarious_.

"Oh my God!" he shouts, loud enough that the other patrons of the pub glare at them. Yusuf doubles over laughing, clutching the bar top in an exaggerated way for purchase. "The cheeky bugger! Right in front of you?!" he howls, exploding in laughter again.

Eames glares at his alleged friend and takes another swig of beer. “Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Laugh it up.”

Yusuf follows the order and keeps on snickering. “Can’t blame him, can you? Arthur is a nice-looking omega.”

"Oi, watch it, before I break this glass over your head," he smirks.

Yusuf grins toothily and catches the bartender’s attention to order them another round. “And that  _other_  bloke. Jun. Can’t bloody believe you called  _Saito_ and not me.”

He drains the last of the beer from his glass and sets it aside. “Whatdya mean?”

Yusuf gapes at him, as if the answer is as plain as the nose on his face, but Eames only stares back, confused. Finally, the chemist throws up his hands. “My nephew! Ravi! He’s an alpha, you know.”

Eames blinks, his senses dulled by the alcohol. He tries to think back to when Yusuf mentioned his nephew, and he does, vaguely, recall him mentioning the boy—well, young man now—is an alpha. “Oh yeah,” he dumbly replies eventually.

"Oh yeah," Yusuf mimics in an unflattering way. "It’s bloody disrespectful, is what it is, Eames. You didn’t even ring me. And Ravi’s a good boy. He’s at MIT, you know.  _On a full ride scholarship_.”

Eames shrugs. “Arthur came up with the list. I forgot, mate. M’sorry.”

Yusuf waves away the apology as he fishes his wallet from his pocket, to throw down a tip for the bartender when he returns with their drinks, but also to fish a creased photo from one of the pockets. He hands it to Eames, and when the alpha focuses his gaze, he sees it’s a photo of a very handsome young man. He can see something of a family resemblance in the coloring and the curly hair, but beyond that, Ravi looks like Yusuf on a  _very_ good day—possibly a very long time ago…in a parallel dimension.

"He looks like my sister," Yusuf comments.

Eames snorts. “Yeah, I noticed. Bloody hell.”

"All right, all right," Yusuf grumbles and then flicks the photo. "You just give that to Arthur, and tell him about MIT, and we can set up a meeting."

Eames hesitates, glancing down at the photo again. “I don’t know, mate.” He thinks about Inception, and their dodgy past with Yusuf. He can’t imagine Arthur responding well to him proposing they set their youngest up with the kin of a man who once epically fucked them over during a job.

Yusuf looks truly offended. “Why the hell not? Look, Ravi’s nothing like me. I swear it. He’s a good boy, and he thinks I sell medical equipment for a living. Plus, wouldn’t it be nice to have extended family that knows about the dreamshare business, who you won’t have to bother lying to? Hm?” 

Yusuf nudges him in the ribs with his elbow, and Eames nods a little in response. He has to admit, and maybe it’s because of the alcohol, but that logic makes sense to him. 

Still, he has his reservations.

"Max…isn’t like Arthur, mate. He needs someone to look after him. I can’t risk pairing him with another bullheaded alpha."

Yusuf shakes his head. “That’s not Ravi. He isn’t a normal alpha. The boy’s _smart_ , and sweet. You’ll see.”

Eames stares at his beer for a bit, but eventually he nods slowly. “All right. I’ll run the idea past Arthur,” he says.

***

Max’s third date is with a young man named Ravi.

All he knows is that the alpha is 19-years-old, and a freshman at MIT.

The second they lock eyes, Max knows this meeting is going to be different. The man is tall with broad shoulders, and caramel skin. Max flushes a little when Ravi smiles at him and utters a soft, “Hello,” in a watered down British accent.

He’s only vaguely aware of his parents casting each other an excited look before they hurry from the room.

Unlike the terrible dates before, he doesn’t have to force conversation with Ravi because they have tons in common. Ravi is a total science nerd, and he asks Max all kinds of questions about his experiment that won all the awards. 

"My uncle told me a bit about it," he says, "but I wanted to ask you some questions in-person."

Max is hugely flattered, and put instantly at ease when he slips into the world of scientific jargon, and he’s pleased that Ravi can not only keep up, but oftentimes excels past him in terms of his knowledge. Their hour meeting flies by, and Max is surprised when Arthur appears in the living room to tell them time is up. Ravi also looks caught off guard, and a little disappointed. The idea that maybe he’d also wanted to keep talking makes Max’s heart speed up.

"Oh…" he says, standing. "Right, of course." Ravi looks at Max, and that weird thing happens when they look at each other again, where the rest of the room seems to blacken at the edges and fall away. "Um, it was really lovely meeting you, Max," he says.

Max realizes everyone is looking at him, waiting for him to respond. “Uh, yeah. Me too—It was nice meeting you too, I mean.”

Once Ravi is gone, Arthur turns to him, smiling brightly. “So?”

Max rolls his eyes, but he can’t help the smile that breaks across his face, and he’s sure his face is bright red. “Oh my  _God_ , you guys. Stop it.”

Eames claps his hands together, grinning. “I think I owe Yusuf an apology.”

"You’ll see him again?" Arthur asks, needlessly, because they all know the answer. 

Max hurries to his room, but not before shouting, “Yes!” over his shoulder—just so they’re all clear on where he stands.

***

Their second date goes better than the first. 

Max feels confident and emboldened that an alpha like Ravi is interested in him, so he opens up, and actually makes Ravi laugh a couple times, which thrills him in a unique way he’s never experienced before. They sit side-by-side on the couch, which Arthur permits, and even encourages. It’s the second date, so Ravi is permitted to smell him, which he does, but only at the end of their hour, and only after first politely asking Max if he can touch his hand.

Max forgets how to breathe as he watches the alpha gently grasp his wrist and bring it upward to his face before he presses his nose to the pulse and slowly inhales.

He frantically worries that he used the wrong soap, or something—something that will offend Ravi and make him leave, and Max will never get to see him again. The thought terrifies him.

Ravi looks up eventually, his pupils slightly dilated, and his gaze dreamlike. “Lovely,” he comments softly.

Max’s ears burn, but he can’t look away, and he can’t help smiling brightly. No one has ever called him lovely before. 

***

Ravi asks his parents for permission to write Max, and when they consent, Max starts receiving weekly love letters.

Thankfully, his dads don’t ask to see them. They’re mostly formal updates on Ravi’s life—school, his physics experiments, plans for the future. He asks questions about Max’s classes, and always drops comments about how brilliant he thinks the omega is. The encouragement does wonders for Max. He begins to consider going to school again—maybe MIT. They were one of the schools who sent him an offer, and he opens his desk drawer to pull out the form. 

Max places the paperwork aside for the time being though and returns to the letter, which eventually (like all the others before it) becomes confessional.

_I think about you all the time. I dream about you._

Max has to put down the letter and looks away for a second because the words make him a little lightheaded. Somehow, though he barely knows him, he is certain Ravi is his mate. His fathers will never allow him to simply run off with the alpha—their relationship is too new, and he’s still too young, but he knows this is the beginning of a relationship that will change his life forever.

He’s surprised that he feels excited, and not terrified, by that prospect.

Max gazes down at the letter where Ravi concludes:  _I miss you,_ _priya_ _._

***

They’re eating dinner later that night at the kitchen table. It’s just the three of them because Rose is sleeping over at Hannah’s house. Max watches Eames serve them mashed potatoes before he attempts to casually ask: “What does priya mean?”

Eames pauses in the midst of serving, and Arthur looks at him. They both seem surprised. His fathers then look at each other, barely restraining their smiles.

"It means beloved, Max," Arthur says finally.

Under the amused attention of his fathers, Max turns beet red, and immediately drops his gaze to his plate, but he can’t stop a smile from curling his lips.

"Now, who’s calling you that, ducky?" Eames teases, and from the corner of his eyes, he sees Arthur slap at the alpha’s arm in pretend castigation. 

Max smiles and pushes at his mound of potatoes, but he doesn’t answer.


	6. Max and Ravi's date, and Jack is back from school

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max and Ravi's date, and Jack is back from school.

Max primarily communicates with Ravi through letters for a year, and it’s strange because they know so much about each other now, but they rarely see one another. When they do meet, it’s during carefully orchestrated dates that are loosely supervised by his parents. And while Arthur and Eames remain politely in a different room during these meetings, there still isn’t a chance for real intimacy, though there are moments when Ravi holds his hand or brushes the tip of his nose against Max’s wrist to smell him, and those fleeting seconds are precious to him, but he wants  _more_.

Max has spent his whole life fearing the outside world, but when he watched Ravi walk from the house back to his car after their last date, he was seized by the desire to run after him. He begins to consider that the rest of the planet might not be as terrifying and strange as he previously believed if an alpha like Ravi is out there. 

Knowing Ravi makes Max want to know more about everything else.

 _I find myself not wanting to speak with people who aren’t you_ , Ravi writes in one of his letters.  _I have one more year of school before I move on to graduate studies, but I’d like very much if you joined me in Massachusetts._

Ravi lays out the plans to rent an apartment in very clear, bullet-point list form, which Max’s analytical brain appreciates. Everything seems so much more logical and less overwhelming when Ravi breaks down life into easy-to-manage steps. Max has already had an offer from MIT, and applied for a scholarship, which he also secured, so the rest will be ostensibly simple: Next year, Ravi will rent a U-Haul and move Max to the east coast where they’ll have an apartment and privacy.

The thought excites Max tremendously. A year is a long time to wait to touch Ravi beyond hand-holding and scent marking. Arthur recently told Max he has permission to go on dates with a bit more intimacy—out to dinner, for a park walk, things of that nature, and Max is very much looking forward to that. 

Ravi should be arriving any moment, and he’s spent the entire day getting ready: straightening his room, choosing his outfit, and grooming. Unfortunately, Jack is home from school on break, and has been spending time tormenting his younger brother.

"So is this guy rich?" Jack asks, sprawled out on his back on his old bed, arms folded behind his head.

Jack thinks he’s the expert on mates now that he got himself a girlfriend. He met her freshman year at the University of Kentucky, and hasn’t shut up about it since. Although, Max supposes he can’t blame his brother. He genuinely likes Marcy because she reminds him of Rose: a slight brunette who isn’t afraid to put Jack in his place. Plus, she’s always been nice to Max.

Jack brought her to the house a few times to meet Arthur and Eames, who approved of his choice immediately: Arthur, because Marcy has a 4.0 GPA and loves shoot ‘em up action films, and Eames because she drinks dark beers and doesn’t complain about calorie counts.

Still, their admittedly flourishing relationship doesn’t give Jack the right to meddle in Max’s business. Eames says Jack is just being protective, but he doesn’t care. Sometimes, the questions get annoying. He’s sure to convey that when he glares at Jack in the mirror as he attempts to straighten his tie.

“ _No_ ,” he snaps, “He’s a student and researcher. He’s  _brilliant_ , Jack,” Max says, a little meanly, hoping it lands close to home because Jack has never been gifted academically.

If he’s hurt by the dig, Jack doesn’t show it. He reaches to the side and picks up a small toy basketball, which he starts tossing into the air and catching repeatedly. “So, he’s broke,” he answers cheekily, flashing Max a grin.

He rolls his eyes in response. “I don’t care about his money,” Max says in a tone he hopes conveys that this should be the end of the conversation. Satisfied with his appearance, he moves to the bed and sits on the edge of it. Glancing to the clock on his desk, he sees it’s exactly five o’clock—Ravi should arrive any second.

"So, why do you like him?" Jack asks, the plastic ball laying beside him, forgotten. His brother is propped up on his elbow, watching him carefully. If he’s being facetious or an asshole, his nefarious intentions aren’t reflected on his face. Jack looks inquisitive, but as though he’s innocently checking in on Max’s life.

The sincerity relaxes Max, slightly. He shrugs, even though he knows exactly why he likes Ravi. The alpha is all he thinks about, so Ravi’s finer characteristics are already neatly bookmarked in his brain. “I don’t know,” he starts, and when Jack is quiet, he eventually continues. “He’s smart, he asks about what I’m studying, and he’s funny,” Max says, smiling, and he’s surprised to find Jack is also smiling faintly when he looks up.

"But he’s ugly, huh?" Jack asks, teasing.

Max rolls his eyes, but now a full smile has blossomed on his lips, and his cheeks feel warm. He wants to say,  _no, quite the opposite_ , but instead he laughs and says, “Shut up, Jack.”

***

Ravi takes him to a restaurant where the prices aren’t on the menu, so Max knows the food must be really expensive. The alpha is a broke college student, and while Ravi works part-time in an on-campus lab, he isn’t paid generously, which means he’s saved up for this date. The thought makes Max feel warm all over, as the realization that Ravi is thinking about him and planning for their future always does.

Ravi isn’t wearing his glasses tonight, which disappoints Max slightly. He loves his glasses, but the alpha more than compensates for the loss with a stunningly beautiful suit that even Arthur commented on when he arrived at their home. It fits him like a glove, and his dark hair is combed back off his face. 

He looks perfect.

The alpha is in the middle of talking about the incoming freshmen who work at the lab, and how incompetent they are. “I swear, priya, you’re smarter than the lot of them. I’d love you to work in the lab,” he says, and Max smiles at him across the table, pleased—at the compliment and at hearing out loud Ravi’s nickname for him. He’s read the name hundreds of times, but it’s a different experience entirely to hear it purred in Ravi’s silken accent. The man sets down his cutlery and diverts his attention away from the dish in front of him to Max. “Have you thought about my proposal?”

Max nods slightly. “I have. A lot,” he confesses, smiling. Truthfully, he’d been _obsessing_ over the decision. With the possibility of being with Ravi dangled in front of him like a carrot, life at home has suddenly become unbearably stifling. Max is ready for a change of scenery, and he wants to be with the alpha. “I’d love to,” he confesses, suddenly feeling shy, but Ravi doesn’t give him a chance to recede into his shell. Instead, he reaches across the table and gently cradles his hand.

"Really?" he asks, smiling brightly. When Max grins and nods in response, Ravi looks as though he’s barely restraining an exclamation of joy. "You…that makes me so happy. You’ve no idea, Max. Really, that’s…" he trails off, smiling, and Max squeezes his hand gently.

***

Ravi parks the car by the curb and walks Max to the front door. There’s a silly, giddy moment where they’re standing in front of each other, and Max gazes up at him, smiling—he hasn’t stopped smiling since dinner—and Ravi looks back at him fondly, his eyes warm and filled with affection.

He’s very still when Ravi moves closer to him and carefully cups Max’s face, hands warm, and suddenly Max wants to close his eyes and relax into them so, so badly, which turns out to be perfect timing because Ravi leans down at that moment to kiss him. Max lets him lead the way because everything he does with Ravi is a first, up to and including their first kiss on the stoop. Ravi is gentle, but assertive enough that Max doesn’t feel lost—the alpha leads and he follows, guiding him like a beacon in the darkness.

Hesitantly, he reaches up and touches Ravi’s chest, which is warm and solid beneath his palms. The alpha hums into his mouth in response and Max sighs happily. The kiss is perfection, which is probably why the front door flies open at that exact moment, and they’re forced to hastily separate.

Jack is standing in the door, and when they lock eyes, Max wants to punch him in the stomach, but his brother looks so stunned and horrified that he instantly know the disruption must have been an accident. He’s holding a half-eaten apple, which he waves through the air in a vague gesture as he gapes at them. “Shit, sorry. I didn’t—I heard voices. Uh, hi,” he says, sticking his free hand in Ravi’s direction. “I’m Jack.”

To his credit, Ravi doesn’t skip a beat. He shakes Jack’s hands and smiles beautifully (in Max’s opinion, of course). “Right. Hey, man. I’ve heard a lot about you. You play for UK, right? You guys are tearing it up this season.”

Jack looks impressed. “You follow football?”

Ravi shrugs humbly. “A little. I mean, I know the best teams.”

Max rolls his eyes when Jack looks like he might be a little bit in love. “Max, you said the man’s smart, and he is indeed smart,” he grins cheekily—just like Eames, and waves them inside.

***

Ravi and Jack are seated in the living room with Eames, talking about football, while Arthur and Max make coffee in the kitchen.

"Have fun?" his dad asks while he places the mugs on the counter.

Max tries not to give the entire game away, but he ends up smiling like a fool anyway when he thinks of the kiss. “Yeah, it was great.”

While the coffee percolates beside him, Arthur leans against the counter and grins, glancing at the adjacent room. He leans forward and pitches his voice low. “You really like him, huh?”

He knows the alphas are preoccupied in the other room, but he plays it safe and whispers in return, “Yeah. I mean, I know it’s fast, but…I just know he’s the one. Does that make sense?”

His dad smiles gently at him, “Yeah.”

When the coffee is ready, they carry the mugs into the living room. Arthur sits by Eames, and Max beside Ravi, and it feels right. It’s nice to feel their little family growing, and for once, Max is happy he has a corner of life for himself—comprised of a party of two where he can have secrets and privacy and one day love Ravi with his entire heart.


	7. Tummy porn and Arthur in lingerie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I combined two smutty prompts: tummy porn and Arthur in lingerie. 
> 
> Mature content ahead, obvs!

Sunday mornings are Eames’ favorite. After he makes the family breakfast, Arthur puts on some coffee and brews Eames a cup of tea, which the alpha takes out back and drinks poolside as he reads the newspaper. Eventually, his mate joins him for a morning swim, so Eames gets to enjoy his tea, and a bit of news,  _and_ see Arthur—stunning and soaking wet—traipse about. Other than the narrow horizontal line across his lower abdomen, Arthur looks almost identical to the young man he spotted all those years ago in an Irish dive bar.

Eames cannot say the same about himself. As an alpha, he was born with broad shoulders and a great big barrel chest, a good physique for wooing little strumpets like Arthur in their youth, but now that he’s gotten older, he’s discovered it’s also the kind of body inclined to gather weight around his midsection. And his love for rich foods and heavy beers hasn’t helped the situation, either. 

He hadn’t realized the gravity of the situation until he caught sight of his reflection in the patio sliding doors one day whilst dressed in trunks, and spotted the unmistakable swell of his belly.  _Bloody hell_. Since then, he’d been doing more reading beside the pool while Arthur swims about like some beautiful merman.

He’s concerned with his appearance, not just out of a sense of vanity, but also because Arthur’s age and infertile status won’t stop some alphas from pursuing him. That much was clear when one of Max’s rejected suitors, Drew, openly gaped at his mate. Eames doesn’t want any young punks thinking they can move in on his territory, and part of exuding a generally menacing aura is not looking like a fat piece of shit.

"Why aren’t you swimming?" Arthur asks after he’s climbed out of the pool and wrapped a towel around his waist. 

Eames looks at his mate’s firm chest and flat stomach, and simultaneously feels a spike of want and despair. “Too cold, isn’t it?” he mumbles, looking down to the paper. He says this, despite the fact that he’s dressed in a t-shirt and swim trunks, and would very much have liked to take a dip had he not suddenly been overwhelmed by paranoia.

Arthur pulls a patio chair closer to him and sits down. “It’s perfect, actually.”

And it is—it  _really_  is. Outside, it’s the perfect weather to swim, and Eames knows the water is probably warm and lovely, and he wants to go into the pool and have Arthur wrap his legs around his waist, so he can slowly wade about as they kiss lazily—just like they used to—but he can’t. Not when it means risking enlightening Arthur to the fact that he’s married an unappealing land mammal who lays about covered in chip crumbs and his own filth.

He’s brought out of his self-loathing marathon by Arthur’s bare toes gently nudging his calf. “What’s wrong?” 

Eames feel guilty when he looks up because Arthur’s brow is furrowed in worry, and none of this is his fault. He smiles softly. “Nothing, love.”

***

He should have known avoiding the topic entirely wasn’t going to work as a strategy. 

Eventually, Arthur notices his strange behavior hasn’t gone away. It happens when Arthur unselfconsciously sheds his towel and trunks when they’re in their bedroom, and walks into the adjacent master bath to start the hot water. Eames sits on the edge of the bed and gazes at his mate’s back—the ridges of his spine and the swell of his perfect little rear, and he must look absolutely  _miserable_ because Arthur frowns when he turns around and sees his expression.

"Eames, what is it?" he asks, turning off the water, and walking back into the bedroom. "Are you feeling okay?"

He’s quiet for a moment before he collapses backwards on the bed and throws his forearm over his eyes. “Fuck,” he groans.

The bed dips beside him and he feels Arthur’s hands on his chest, rubbing gently. “Tell me,” he says, voice tight with worry, and Eames feels another stab of guilt. Arthur is probably imagining the worst: a death in the family, terminal illness, and here Eames is having body image issues. He’s such an insufferable twat.

"I’m a fat ponce," Eames moans, and the room is quiet for a couple of seconds before Arthur bursts out laughing.

Eames eases his arm off his face and glares up at Arthur, trying not to become distracted by how Arthur’s whole face lights up when he smiles and laughs. He reminds himself that he’s bloody angry. “What?” Arthur says through the laughter.

"Oh, I’m glad you find my morbid obesity funny, darling," Eames grumbles, glancing down at the offending area.

Arthur stops laughing eventually when he realizes Eames isn’t joking. “Are you serious?” he asks. “Eames, you’re not obese.”

Well, true. He might not be  _technically_  obese, but that’s beside the point. “It’s occurred to me that I’m old and chubby, and you…” Eames trails off and gestures at Arthur’s naked, sprawled figure as though that’s explanation enough. When Arthur stares back at him in confusion, he spits, “Well, you’re bloody fit, aren’t you?” Eames throws his arm across his face again, but Arthur pries off the limb so he can lean over and peer down at his face.

"I love the way you look," he purrs sweetly and leans down to kiss Eames cheek gently—then the other one, and then his mouth. 

Eames sighs, relaxing slightly because Arthur sounds so sincere. “Yeah?” he asks hesitantly, gaze searching Arthur’s face for any tell—a flicker at the corner of his eye, or a diversion of his stare that might indicate he’s lying. 

There’s nothing. Just Arthur, and Arthur smiling at him like he’s an adorable buffoon, which he supposes he is. “I love your tummy,” the omega murmurs, pulling up Eames’ shirt a bit so he can rub his palm across his stomach. “I love you bigger,” he says as he slides his thigh across Eames’ lap so he can straddle him. Eames reflexively reaches up to cradle his rear.

"Is that right?" he asks, forgetting he’s supposed to be sulking because Arthur is naked and on top of him, and really, his self-hatred can only withstand so much.

Arthur, the minx, grins cheekily and wiggles a little atop him so his dick grinds against Eames’ covered crotch. The friction makes the breath hitch in his throat. His mate leans down and sprawls out atop him, leaning down to press his pink mouth against Eames’ lips so he can feel his warm breath when he whispers, “You fuck me harder when you’re bigger.”

 _Oh_. 

Eames’ fingers run down the crevice between his spread cheeks, and he delights in the way the movement makes Arthur shiver. Eames kisses him, hard enough to coax a soft whimper from his mate, the sound going straight to his dick, and Arthur has only just begun to scramble to pull down his swim trunks when the front door slams shut.

"Hey!" Jack calls from the living room. "Guys, I’m home!"

 _Fuck_. Jack is visiting from college, and Eames completely forgot he was supposed to get in this morning. Arthur is already off the bed and grabbing his robe off the hook fixed to the back of the door. Eames is slower to move, and by the time he sits up, Arthur is covered modestly, and he’s grinning at Eames’ dishevelled state. “We’ll continue this later, okay?” he asks, still lovely and flushed. 

Eames grins toothily, feeling worlds better. “Sure, love,” he says and winks.

Arthur smirks and opens the door, slipping out to greet Jack. Eames stands to join him, but first glances in the bureau mirror to make sure he doesn’t look too ruined. While he’s staring at his reflection, he gives his physique a second once-over. Now that he thinks about it, he does look bigger, and not in an entirely awful way. His belly matches the rest of him—big.  _Powerful_ , he thinks, trying to see himself through Arthur’s omega eyes. Arthur is beautiful, and his mate thinks he looks good, which is all the incentive he needs not to feel like a sad sack. 

Eames’ swagger is back in his step when he exits the bedroom and goes to properly say hello to their boy.

***

Max is out on his date with Ravi, and Jack is watching some action film at full blast in the living room when he finds himself alone with Arthur next. They’re in the bedroom—door shut and locked when Arthur grins and says, “I have a surprise for you,” before he disappears into the bathroom.

Eames sits at the foot of the bed and waits patiently until the bathroom door opens slowly and Arthur steps into view.

Then, he forgets to breathe for a few seconds.

Arthur is dressed in a sheer black babydoll, and when Eames looks closer, he sees a matching pair of black panties beneath the hem of the lingerie. Arthur doesn’t have breasts anymore, but the nighty is cut narrowly enough that the small cups compliment his flat chest, and give them a somewhat convex appearance. His mate smiles shyly and slowly turns, the delicate fabric of the skirt flaring out slightly. “Like it?” he asks, an exercise in redundancy because Eames  _clearly_ does, his mouth agape as he ogles the omega. “I’ve had it a while, but I figured you needed cheering up today.”

Eames blinks. “You’ve had this  _a while_?” A hundred thoughts run through his brain: when Arthur might have purchased it, his inspiration for doing so, what he’d been  _planning_ at the time when he bought the naughty gown.

He isn’t in the mood to interrogate Arthur, though, given the circumstances. “Bloody hell,” he says while he exhales, and Arthur saunters closer to him. Eames leans forward and pushes up the hem of the nighty until he can see Arthur’s cesarean scar and the firm plain of his stomach. Then he leans forward and presses his mouth to the hot flesh there, kissing and licking, and releasing the fabric so the skirt partially falls across the back of his head. He feels the omega inhale sharply and reach down to curl his fingers into Eames’ hair.

"We have to be quiet," Arthur says softly, and Eames grins in response against his flesh. His mate has made that command before many times, and Eames has always taken it as a personal challenge to try and make Arthur moan as loudly as possible and make the sprogs glower at them later in a mixture of embarrassment and disgust. Besides, Jack is grown now, and it serves him right for blaring the television in such an obnoxious manner.

"You look so sexy," Eames says when he pulls away and lays backwards, propped up against the bed on his elbows. Arthur smiles, pleased, and stands before him, allowing Eames to look him up and down a few more moments. Eventually, he reaches forward and grasps Arthur’s hips firmly, pulling him forward onto the bed.

His mate’s thighs frame his waist and Arthur reaches down to pull insistently at the fabric of his shirt. “Take this off,” he instructs, and Eames extends his arms above his head as Arthur pulls the shirt off and tosses it aside. The omega falls against him, burying his face against Eames’ neck and breathing his scent deeply while his hands wander across the broad expanse of his chest. Arthur moans softly when Eames reaches down, cups his rear, and feels that his panties are already damp at the back.

Arthur squirms out of his grasp and leaves a warm, moist trail along Eames’ neck, chest, and stomach as he kisses and tongues the span of naked skin. “You’re so hot,” Arthur breathes against his stomach, nuzzling the swell there. “How can you not know how hot you are?” 

Eames has to look away when Arthur reaches his trunks and yanks them down. He focuses on breathing evenly and not coming the second his mate swallows his dick. His gaze locks on the light fixture in the center of the ceiling, and he reaches down to gently cradle the back of Arthur’s head as he bobs up and down, his hot tongue lapping at the bottom of his cock. “Fuck,” he moans loudly, already breaking the hush-hush rule, but Arthur doesn’t scold him. If anything, the omega seems to be encouraged by the response and he moans in answer, the vibration travelling up his dick and across his abdomen. 

Eames dares to glance downwards, and when he sees Arthur kneeling on the bed in his nighty, choking himself on the alpha’s length, he nearly loses it. “Fuck, stop,” he gasps, his fingers curling in Arthur’s hair and pulling lightly—just enough to encourage him to slide upward. 

Arthur gasps, his cheeks red and eyes glassy. “Was that good?” he asks earnestly, climbing up the length of Eames’ body. Eames kicks off his trunks entirely, grabs him and rolls them over, turning Arthur on his stomach as he kisses the back of his neck.

"It was good," he whispers. "It was so good, darling." 

He loves when Arthur is like this—heated, pliant, and so eager to please. The perfect omega. 

Arthur pants and writhes on the bed, forcing his knees under him so he can arch his spine and thrust his ass into the air. “Good boy,” Eames growls, hooking his thumbs under the waistband of the panties and pulling them down roughly to Arthur’s knees. The omega whimpers in response and Eames pushes the nighty higher so his rear is totally exposed. When he glances down, Eames sees Arthur’s wet— _really_ wet—and knows he’ll be tight and beautifully accommodating when he finally breaches him.

His mate’s body is a furnace beneath him, and Arthur parts his thighs further, pushing backwards, trying to silently coax Eames along because he can no longer speak articulately. Eames isn’t in the mood for teasing him, so he grips his dick and pushes the head past the tight ring of muscle. Arthur gasps and throws his head back, and Eames snaps his hips forward, burying his length in a single push. He’s dimly aware of the omega crying and panting beneath him when he drapes himself across his back, braces on one arm, and grips Arthur’s throat with his free hand. 

He angles his mate’s head backwards and presses his stubble against Arthur’s clean-shaven cheek as he thrusts roughly. Suddenly, it’s clear to him what Arthur meant when he said Eames can fuck him harder in this state. More pounds on his frame equals more force behind every stroke. He can fuck Arthur harder than ever— _deeper_ than ever, and he can feel every vibration and hitch of breath from Arthur’s moans and gasps as he cradles his throat. 

"Eames," Arthur croaks, trembling to support his weight partially. He finally collapses onto his elbows, but keeps his back arched and ass presented in the air. 

Arthur is soaking wet now, and Eames’ cock makes obscene noises as it pistons forth, his balls slapping against the slick plains of his mate’s thighs. He presses his stomach and chest against Arthur’s back and looks down to see the omega’s hard prick bouncing against the sheer front of the nighty, painting a streak of moisture against the fabric. Eames swears loudly at the sight, and leans back so he can add a little more dig to every thrust. 

He knows they’ve found a good rhythm when the headboard thuds against the wall and the sound of the TV in the living room is no longer the dominating noise in the room. Arthur cries out uninhibitedly, thrashing against Eames’ grip on his neck, but clearly enjoying the show of force because he hasn’t told him to stop. In fact, he hasn’t stopped moaning since Eames first grabbed him.

Arthur shoves backwards, undulating his hips quickly to meet Eames’ strokes in desperate, little movements. “Oh God,” he whines, and Eames feels the full body tremble coursing through his mate’s body that always heralds his orgasm. “Eames,” Arthur gasps in warning.

"I’ve got you, love," Eames rasps, extremely proud he manages to say anything at all. He reaches down and drapes Arthur’s hard cock with the fabric of the nighty, stroking him quickly. He’s not sure why, but he’s consumed by the desire to make Arthur come all over the pretty lingerie. Perhaps he wants his mate to see the ruined garment later and remember Eames claiming him.

"Eames!" Arthur cries loudly as he comes against the nylon. 

The omega collapses beneath him, and Eames drapes across his back as he thrusts into Arthur’s pliant heat. Occasionally, his mate moans softly, encouraging him. Arthur reaches back, holding the back of Eames’ head as the alpha rests his forehead against the base of his neck. Eames covers Arthur’s body entirely with his own in the way he knows his mate likes—pinning him in place and fucking him, Arthur grunting softly in response to every thrust. 

Eames moans throatily as he buries himself to the hilt and pulls them onto their sides, ignoring Arthur’s soft objections. 

"Don’t knot me. We should go hang out with Jack," he murmurs sleepily—unconvincingly.

Eames lazily kisses the side of his neck, stroking his stomach through the damp fabric of his nighty, rubbing his mate’s come against his skin in slow circles. Normally, Arthur would shriek at such a breach in cleanliness protocol, but he’s too fucked out to care, which is why Eames decides to take advantage of him. His gaze travels downwards and he sees Arthur’s panties are still gathered at his knees. “He’s a big boy. He can wait fifteen minutes,” Eames growls, and thrusts a few more times, just to make sure he’s buried to the hilt. Arthur murmurs in protest, but he’s already pulling up his thigh, making more room for Eames, so he doesn’t really mean it.

The knot swells deep inside Arthur and his mate hisses before he moans softly, reaching down to touch his pelvis as he always does when Eames knots him. The omega swears he can feel Eames’ cock from the outside, and even though he’s not sure that’s true, it’s incredibly sexy, nonetheless. Eames bites the spot where Arthur’s neck meets his shoulder gently when he starts to come in waves, soaking Arthur again. He comes so much, a few droplets dribble out and run down the backs of Arthur’s thighs.

They lay there, tangled, sweaty and ruined. Arthur softly moans periodically, usually when he shifts against the bed, and Eames’ arm is secured around his waist, holding him tightly. “Little minx,” Eames grumbles against his ear, and he can feel Arthur smile.

The normal feelings of adoration and euphoria wash over him as he strokes Arthur’s chest and gentles him, and they end up resting together for more like twenty minutes before the knot finally softens and he can pull out. Though he wants to sleep so, so badly, Eames climbs to his feet and washes up in the bathroom as Arthur quickly showers. 

He grabs his mate in the bathroom before he has a chance to slip out and change and kisses Arthur soundly. The omega smiles and laughs adorably, squirming out of his arms and hurrying to dress, and Eames feels like they’re in their twenties again—internationally wanted dream criminals, frequently on the lam, armed, dangerous, and bloody feared. He feels newly energized, confident, and oddly proud. When he looks into the bathroom mirror, Eames doesn’t feel ashamed. 

In fact, he very nearly winks at his reflection.

When they’re dressed, they leave the bedroom, and Jack’s head is in the fridge as he’s rummages about for food. The instant he looks at them, Eames knows the jig is up. He looks flustered and embarrassed, and is cradling an apple, which he quickly bites because he’s clearly trying to distract himself with something—anything.

Voices emanate from outside, and Jack is the first to respond. “Someone’s at the door! I’ve got it!”

Eames grins crookedly and looks at Arthur, who smirks when Eames makes a kissy face. “Don’t fight it. You adore me,” Eames rumbles, giving Arthur’s rear a gentle squeeze just because no one else is around.

"Behave yourself," Arthur chastises, but he casts a sexy little smile over his shoulder on his way to the kitchen. 


	8. An exploration of Arthur and Dom's friendship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from Nonnie: Hi dear! Don’t know if you still are taking drabble request. But I really enjoy how you described the friendship between Arthur and Cobb. Would you please write one small fic emphasizing their relationship? Like how he managed to accept AE as a couple or why Arthur is such a loyal friend? It is a bonus if you could include Eames in the fic:) I don’t want to be rude. It is totally ok if you don’t want to take my prompt XD
> 
> Warning: aaaaangst

When their children are older, Cobb makes an effort to see Arthur more regularly. Arthur understands that this is the man’s attempt at being a thoughtful friend when Cobb insists that Eames comes along on the outings. This is Cobb trying to socialize like a normal human being. Eames is his husband, so Cobb wants to include him in their friendship unit, but things remain a tad stilted and awkward initially.

"I don’t know how he lives in that house," Eames says as he steers their car along the road outside Cobb’s residence. 

Arthur frowns as he stares out the window at the familiar sight of the house Mal and Cobb bought together all those years ago. “Mal loved this place. He probably thinks it’d be disrespectful if he sold it.”

Eames parks the car along the curb and sighs, staring through the windshield thoughtfully. “I suppose. Bloody macabre, though.”

After unbuckling his seatbelt, Arthur pauses to shrug. “I don’t know. Would you sell the house if something happened to me?”

Eames loves their house. He’s constantly doing maintenance on the lawn and on the inner mechanisms. They raised their children within those walls, and Arthur knows for a fact Eames would rather have his teeth pulled from his skull than give up those memories.

His mate looks unsettled by the thought, but he begrudgingly grumbles, “No, I guess not.” 

Satisfied, Arthur smiles softly and opens the door. 

As they walk shoulder-to-shoulder along the driveway and then up the small path leading to the front door, Arthur nudges against Eames’ shoulder. “Go easy on him. He’s trying,” he says.

Eames nods a little in response and rings the bell. 

Arthur is nervous. Eames and Cobb have a complicated past, and he doesn’t think Eames has ever fully forgiven Cobb for lying to them during the Inception job. His husband may have been a thief, but he’s actually one of the most principled men he knows. Eames believes deeply in loyalty, which is why he was always drawn to Arthur. Well…one of the reasons, anyway. Even though Eames puts on a pleasant expression when he’s around Cobb, Arthur knows in his heart that he’s warily observing the man—waiting for him to jeopardize their family’s fragile peace. And he can’t blame him. Cobb lied to them on the job, and then brought trouble to their front door.

Cobb’s actually given them quite a lot of reasons not to trust him. Arthur just refuses to let any of those reasons stick in his mind.

The front door flies open and Cobb is standing there, a wide smile plastered on his face. “Arthur!” he cries, and then a second later, “Eames! Hey, sorry. I lost track of time. I’m cooking, or…trying to. Come in,” he says in a flurry of words, and hurries Arthur and Eames inside as though afraid they’ll try to dart back to the safety of their car.

"Are Phillipa and James home from break?" Arthur asks.

Phillipa is in her last year at college, and James just started his schooling away from home, but it’s summer, so Arthur supposes they’ll be temporarily moving back home soon. 

"Uh, no," Cobb calls from the kitchen, and when Arthur rounds the corner, he sees the man has all the burners on the oven going with pots of various sizes resting on the surface. Whatever he’s making, it looks intense. "Phillipa is travelling abroad for a bit, and James is going to stay with some friends in Nevada."

Arthur nods slowly, processing that information. Phillipa is an alpha—adventurous, like Rose, so it makes sense she’s off exploring the world, and James has always been an unorthodox omega, much like Arthur himself. He’s bold, outgoing, hence staying with friends hundreds of miles from home, and on more than one occasion staring at Eames for a  _little_  toolong. 

Maybe it’s for the best the kids are travelling, but as Arthur watches Cobb hunch over the stove, he feels a little sad. Cobb is all alone in this big house.

"For the whole summer?" he asks.

Cobb nods, pausing as he lifts a spoon from one of the pots to taste some sauce. “The whole summer,” he confirms. When he glances over his shoulder and sees Arthur standing there, he makes a shooing gesture with his hand. “Go sit with Eames in the living room.”

Arthur wanders back to the main room and finds Eames seated on the couch, leafing through a photo album on the table. When he spots Arthur, he points at one of the picture. “Jesus, you were a baby.”

He smiles when he sees the photo Eames is addressing. Arthur sits beside him on the couch and leans against Eames slightly so they can crowd together and see the photo of Arthur and Cobb standing together in front of one of the original PASIVs. “I was, sort of. I was eighteen. I remember Miles almost laughed me out of the room when I volunteered for the program,” he says, gaze dropping to the next picture—Miles, seated at his desk, smiling at someone off-camera. “Cobb vouched for me. I think…maybe he saw a little of himself in me.”

Cobb’s parents had died when he was very young, and Arthur was also an orphan, and lost at the time. He’d done a little time in the military, realized it wasn’t the career for him, and then he’d heard about the dreamshare program, and he wanted to volunteer. The problem was, Miles thought he was a bigger liability than asset. If it hadn’t been for Cobb, and then Mal, advocating on his behalf, he never would have become a point man.

Eames nods thoughtfully and turns the page. There’s Mal, beautiful in her carefree way, inspecting the insides of the PASIV, the sleeves of her shirt rolled to the elbows. Next photo, Mal making a face at whoever is taking the picture—Cobb, Arthur recalls. They’d already fallen in love by the time he’d been introduced to the program, and he remembers thinking they’d make great parents even back then.

"Surprised Cobb photographed all this," Eames murmurs, his fingertips tapping the photo of Arthur standing in front of a chalkboard with words like  _Layers_ and _Kick_ written across the surface. 

"Well, remember, this is when we were legal," Arthur says, smiling faintly when he sees another captured moment—Cobb, his arm thrown casually around Arthur’s shoulders as he explains something. He sobers at the sight. "I don’t know what I would have done…without them," he says quietly, feeling his throat tighten.

Arthur remembers shaking like a leaf in front of Miles, his heart hammering rabbit quick when he saw the familiar rejection in the man’s eyes. It was always something back then: too young, no high school certificate, no experience. There were a million reasons to send him away, and not many to keep him around. 

The story of his life. 

He’d run out of options. Not even the military was the answer, and now Miles was rebuffing him, and he’d begun to feel the walls close in.

But then, there had been Cobb. And Mal. 

Freedom. A new chance at a valued life.

Eames clears his throat, pulling Arthur from the memory. “I was always a bit jealous of you two, you know,” he says, looking up from the album. 

Arthur gazes at him. “Of me and Cobb?” he asks disbelievingly. He thinks back to Cobb’s slow decline—of the sleepless nights, the constant fear. He doesn’t understand why anyone would ever envy that.

His mate nods. “Of that kind of partnership. I never had that, you know,” he says, probably aiming for casual, but Arthur can hear the tenseness in his voice. 

All the time he’d known Eames professionally, the man had crafted an image as a lone wolf—someone who deliberately steered clear of regularly working with any team because he preferred to be hired as a mercenary. For the first time ever, Arthur wonders if he was wrong. He wonders if Eames had been just as lonely as Arthur had been when he was so young and scared.

He nudges Eames’ side with his shoulder gently. “You have it now, though,” he comments quietly, hoping the words don’t sound corny.

Judging from the way Eames gazes at him and smiles softly, his mate doesn’t find it corny at all.

***

Bless him, Cobb  _tried_. The kitchen is a disaster zone, and Eames had to rush in at the last second to try and save the meal. But the important part is, he  _tried_. 

Cobb spends the first couple minutes apologizing profusely for the subpar meal, but he finally calms once Arthur relentlessly insists everything tastes wonderful. 

"How are you two?" Cobb asks after things have settled down.

"We’re good," he answers, though he’s reflexively surprised, as he is any time Cobb inquires about his personal wellbeing. 

See, everyone (including Cobb) assumes he’s always been a terrible friend to Arthur, but Arthur knows the truth. Cobb doesn’t know how to love people because no one loved him as a child. He too was a victim of uncaring foster homes, shuffled about like a piece of luggage. It wasn’t until he met Mal, who loved him fiercely and tenaciously, that Cobb learned how to show affection. Mal was so good for him that the love he felt for her spilled over the edges and spread to Arthur, who basked in their relationship vicariously like their affections were the rays of the sun.

Then he lost Mal, and the world went black and cold. Cobb never stopped loving Arthur, but without Mal, he forgot how to show that affection.

Arthur never held that against him.

And anyway, he’s trying to repair the damage now with his awful dinner, and his inept attempt to make polite conversation with Eames. To his credit, Eames is answering all of his questions dutifully, but the whole thing feels too lumbering and scripted to pass as a fun, carefree evening among friends.

Arthur is just beginning to think it will always be this way when Cobb suddenly, as he has a habit of doing, surprises the hell out of him.

The man sets down his fork, looks square at Eames, and says, “I’m sorry…about what happened on the job.”

Deafening silence settles across the room and Arthur nervously looks from Cobb to Eames, trying to read his mate’s reaction. Eames’ jaw tightens and he slowly sets down his knife (thankfully,) but his gaze looks nothing short of murderous now that Cobb has laid it all out on the table.

"And what do you think happened on the job?" Eames asks ominously. 

Arthur can hear everything—the clock ticking in the hallway, the wind blowing outside, his own heartbeat echoing in his ears. He’s ready to dive across the table and shield Cobb if Eames attacks him.

Cobb doesn’t blink and gazes back at him. “I lied. I almost got us killed—”

"You lied to Arthur," Eames interrupts. "How could you do that?"

Cobb seems surprised, and that makes two of them. Arthur looks at Eames, eyes wide. He’d always assumed Eames was bitter over Cobb double-crossing them, but maybe it had always been more personal that that.  So much suddenly makes sense. Eames had almost instantly forgiven Yusuf, who had also lied to them, but he’d maintained a grudge against Cobb. Eames hated Cobb for lying  _to Arthur_.

"Everything he’s done for you," Eames continues, "And that’s how you repay him. What kind of man does that?"

Cobb swallows thickly, and Arthur feels a terrible pull of guilt in his stomach. There’s so much that Eames doesn’t know or understand, and while his criticism comes from a place of love and loyalty, Arthur wants him to stop. He hates when people attack Cobb, even if it’s Eames, because he remembers when Miles was being cruel and dismissive and Cobb rushed to defend him.

Arthur believes human beings are nothing but a summary of memories —walking mélanges that reflect every strength and weakness collected through the years. In Cobb’s eyes, Arthur sees Mal, and their love, and also tragedy and death, whereas Eames only sees the man who nearly cost them everything. Had they died during Inception, there would never have been an Arthur and Eames. There would be no Jack, or Rose, or Max. There would be no house or white picket fence.

Everything would be razed to the earth by a selfish, desperate man with a haunted past, who Arthur loves endlessly.

Cobb doesn’t speak for a long time. He stares down at the cuff of his sleeve, and when he looks up, his eyes are coated with a thin sheen of tears. “I don’t know what you want to hear from me,” he whispers.

"The truth," Eames spits back relentlessly—so harsh that Arthur winces in response. 

Cobb nods weakly. “Mal was everything to me. Like Arthur is for you. I was out of my mind with grief. I have no defense. I have no excuse,” he says, his voice rough. “I knew Arthur would follow me no matter what, and I exploited that loyalty,” Cobb says, shaking his head. “Eames, wouldn’t you do anything to save your children?”

Arthur thinks back to Eames charging towards a building guarded by an armed sniper in order to free him and Jack. He recalls Eames blasting himself into limbo and clawing his way through time and space to reunite them. _Yes, Eames would do anything_.

Eames is quiet as he mulls that over, and Arthur is afraid to so much as shift in his seat and disturb the moment. Cobb leans forward in his seat, his brow wrinkled, eyes urgent. “Arthur is family to me, and so are you, Eames. I don’t want us all to grow old with this… _thing_ between us—this stupid decision I made when I was out of my mind.” 

He knows his mate is doing some kind of emotional math in his head when he remains quiet. Eames is weighing the bad of Cobb’s betrayal against the good of everything else Arthur shared with him—giving him a career, a home, a  _life._

Finally, Eames sighs and reaches across the table. Cobb is clearly stunned for a moment, but then he takes the man’s hand and they shake in a very formal, alpha-like sign of trust. Arthur instantly relaxes in his chair and smiles brightly. “Well, then. Now that all our dicks are measured, can we have a drink?”

***

They have several of them in the living room, and with the gentle anaesthetic of alcohol in their systems, Eames and Cobb relax enough to have a good time. The two men roar with laughter at memories of jobs gone bad, and even gang up to make fun of the finicky on-job practices of Arthur, who scowls, which only makes them laugh harder.

Arthur finds he can’t hold a grudge—not when the two most important men in his life are finally,  _finally_ getting along. 

When all the booze is gone, Cobb insists they stay the night, which works out great because Arthur put Rose in charge of watching the boys for the night anyway, and Eames is too drunk to drive. 

"You’re sure?" Arthur asks as Cobb drunkenly stumbles in to the guest room, cradling an armful of blankets and pillows.

"Stay!" he declares, dumping the linens on the bare mattress. "Stay. It’ll be nice to have other people in the house."

Arthur feels his heart clench at those words, but he’s soon distracted by the ridiculous sight of Eames and Cobb, pissed out of their gourds, attempting to dress the bed. When Eames falls over, Arthur helps him up. “All right, that’s good enough. Stand down, soldier,” he says, laughing.

When they’re laying in bed together, partially undressed, Cobb wishes them a goodnight, flicks off the light, and closes the door behind him.

Arthur is again overcome with sadness when he imagines Cobb wandering the house alone—laying in bed alone—living this entire life of forced normalcy when he’s lost his other half, his mate,  _his heart_. He turns onto his side and wraps an arm around Eames, maybe too tightly.

"Ow, bloody hell. You all right?" Eames murmurs, drunk and sleepy.

Arthur rests his chin on his mate’s shoulder and kisses his neck apologetically. “Yeah, sorry.” He gazes at the stubble on Eames’ cheek and the way the lashes smudge beautifully against his cheeks when he closes his eyes. “I love you,” he whispers, watching as Eames’ pink mouth curls up happily at the corners.

"Love you, darling," he whispers before falling asleep.


	9. Breakfast in bed, the sprogs walk in on Arthur and Eames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt: breakfast in bed WPF drabble, and a few pervs wanted a fic where one (or more) of the kids walk in on Arthur and Eames doin’ it.
> 
> Heads up: This fic fluctuates wildly from fluff to smut.

Whenever the opportunity presents itself, Eames serves Arthur breakfast in bed on the weekends. Now that the kids are older, and independent enough to pour their own bowls of cereal, he’s able to cook in the mornings more regularly. The sprogs don’t feel like hanging around the kitchen long enough for one of Eames’ gorgeous three-course breakfasts, so they dart in and out of the space, clamouring and shouting, and then they’re gone in a puff of smoke. 

It leaves Eames lots of times to arrange the food neatly on a tray, complete with a small vase and some pretty flowers, and carry it to Arthur. It never gets old seeing Arthur look up from reading his newspaper and smiling when he sees Eames return to the bedroom. 

"What’s it today?" he always asks, and Eames spends a moment explaining each plate: petite Belgian waffles with Maine maple syrup, strawberry-flavored cream cheese stuffed French toast, and mushroom, sausage and sweet onion soufflé. Arthur grins at him, "Eames, that’s three  _entrees_ , not a three-course meal.”

Eames shrugs innocently and sits beside him in bed. “Well, you’re too thin anyway,” which is what he  _always_ says when Arthur points out he’s made too much food again.

"Help me eat this," Arthur says, smiling, and scoops up a spoonful of soufflé, feeding it to the alpha.

Eames hums happily eating his own cooking. By God, he’s good. Arthur echoes the sentiment when he tastes the food and moans aloud. “Holy shit,” he murmurs before making short work of the waffles. “This is your best yet.”

Arthur sings the praises of every dish, and Eames can’t help but proudly puff up a little from the compliments. Arthur doesn’t dole out kind words unthinkingly—he’s not one of these people who calls things  _nice_ or  _awesome_ if they’re not worthy of those reviews. When he says he likes something, he  _really_ likes it. As a result, Arthur doesn’t freak out over many things, but one of the exceptions is Eames’ cooking.

"You should have been a chef," he sighs, leaning back against the pillows when he finally surrenders to Eames’ unending breakfast. He’s polished off the waffles, but has eaten only half of the french toast and the soufflé. 

Eames takes that as his cue to swoop in and help him eat the rest of the food. Arthur moves the tray over to him, and grins as he watches Eames chow down. “Never would have met you if I’d been a chef,” Eames says between mouthfuls.

Arthur grins as he stretches out, arching his back slightly. “Ah, that’s right.”

Eames gets a little distracted when the hem of Arthur’s pajama top rides up and he sees a sliver of his belly. Since his mate has known him a long time, he instantly catches the look and smirks. “Eat first, then let me digest. Maybe you’ll get lucky later,” Arthur says cheekily.

Eames definitely eats a little faster after that quasi-promise. He even offers to do the dishes afterwards—normally Arthur’s terrain, and the omega gazes at him amusedly when Eames climbs out of bed cradling the tray. “Do you think I’m going to tear off my clothes if you do the washing?”

He shrugs on his way towards the door and looks over his shoulder. “Can’t hurt my chances, right?”

Arthur laughs when Eames slips out of the room, and the alpha grins on his way to the kitchen.

***

As it turns out, serving breakfast in bed and doing the dishes afterwards does increase one’s chances of getting lucky with one’s mate.

Eames slowly unbuttons the front of Arthur’s pajama top, kissing along the exposed flesh and humming happily, while Arthur runs his fingers through his mate’s hair. He slides off the top, and then hooks his fingers under the waistband of the bottoms and pulls them off, as well. Then he climbs off the mattress, and Arthur watches him with heated intensity as Eames quickly sheds his clothes and returns to bed.

Arthur smiles up at him, and he takes a few seconds to look at his mate: naked, relaxed, a little sleepy. Totally beautiful. Eames crawls down to kiss along his hipbones and thighs, dipping down further when Arthur sighs and spreads his legs. Eames tongues along his inner thighs, biting and nipping gently until Arthur is writhing on the bed and moaning.

The omega throws his legs over Eames’ shoulders, and he reaches down to part Arthur’s cheeks and hungrily lap at his entrance, which is already wet. Eames seals his lips around the hole and thrusts his tongue inside Arthur, and the bed jolts violently when Arthur slams his hand against the mattress and cries out loudly. “Oh fuck,” he gasps, fingers furling in Eames’ hair and tugging none-too-gingerly. 

Eames tongue fucks him for a while until Arthur is a wet, squirming mess, begging him incessantly. “Fuck me,” he moans, batting Eames accidentally at one point on the ear to make his point. “C’mon, c’mere. Eames, come here,” he babbles.

He grins wolfishly when he separates from Arthur and kisses a trail back up along the underside of his lovely cock, across his stomach and chest, right up to his clavicle, and flushed cheeks. “You rang, my love?” he whispers, cradling Arthur’s thighs and pushing them upward until his mate wraps his arms around the backs of his knees, spreading his cheeks, and exposing himself totally to Eames.

"Eames," he whines, his head dropping back on the bed when the alpha grips his dick and presses the head inside.

He grips the back of Arthur’s legs as he pushes forth, moaning throatily through the plunge until his hips are flush against the omega’s rear. They’re still for a second, Eames focused on the sensation of Arthur’s heart pounding, the beating rhythm travelling through his body and pulsating around his cock. He eventually becomes aware of Arthur begging him softly, and Eames begin to move, partially bracing himself against Arthur’s legs for leverage.

As he builds up speed, Eames leans forward, and Arthur drapes his legs over his shoulders, leaving himself spread and vulnerable for the alpha to pound into. Arthur reaches back, groping until he can grip the headboard for purchase. Then he lets go of the board and grabs Eames instead, pulling him forward by the neck so he can kiss his jaw and then softly bite his shoulder as he tries to muffle his cries.

Eames tries to stay quiet as well, but occasionally a groan bleeds past his locked teeth. His hips slap against Arthur’s ass rapidly, and the omega eventually has to part from his shoulder and cry out. “Shh,” Eames gasps, covering Arthur’s mouth with his hand, which only seems to make things worse because the omega moans throatily through his fingers.  _Little minx._

"Dad! Rose and I want to go to the mall, but Jack won’t let us take the car!" Max suddenly shouts from right outside the bedroom, and the doorknob jiggling is their only warning before the door swings open. Luckily, being sexually active parents has given them catlike reflexes in such a scenario, so Eames has already pulled out and Arthur is under the covers when Max and Rose charge into the room, although they do get a generous view of Eames’ rear before he can get under the blankets.

Rose immediately shrieks and runs out of the room, and Max’s eyes grow to the size of saucers. “Oh my God!” he shouts. “You guys! Oh God!  _Gross_ ,” and then he follows Rose, running down the hallway and slamming his door shut behind him.

Arthur covers his face, and Eames thinks he might actually be upset for a second before he notices his shoulders are quaking. Arthur is  _laughing_. Eames tugs at his wrists until he sees Arthur’s face where there is indeed a broad smile stretched across his lips. “Jesus,” Arthur laughs. “Think we permanently scarred them?”

Eames grins crookedly. “Nah, it’s best they learn this stuff now. Schools are rubbish with sex ed, you know,” he says casually, rolling out of bed to find a pair of trousers.

Arthur watches him thoughtfully. “You want me to…um…” he says, gesturing vaguely to Eames’ very obvious erection that not even the sudden intrusion of his children has managed to dissuade.

Eames smirks and pulls on a pair of sweats. “Let’s continue this when the sprogs are out, hm?” he says, winking at Arthur before he slips into the bathroom to splash some cold water on his face until the front of his bottoms are no longer tented.

When he returns to the bedroom, Arthur is climbing out of bed. “I’m going to shower,” he announces, and Eames deliberately gets in his way so he can grope him a little and squeeze his rear. Arthur cackles and shoves him away before he slips into the bathroom and closes the door.

_Right. Now, the sprogs._

Eames strolls down the hallway, pausing to pluck his car keys off the hook by the phone in the kitchen, and then walks to Max and Jack’s room. He knocks on the door and tries not to smirk when Max sullenly responds, “Come in.”

He opens the door and sees Rose and Max seated together on Max’s bed, probably in the midst of comparing emotional scars.

Rose glares at him. “You should lock the door.”

Eames does his best to look contrite as he nods. “True. Sorry about that. We forgot.” He ambles inside and sits on the edge of Jack’s bed. 

Max frowns deeply and Eames sighs when he sees the expression on his youngest’s face. “What were you saying about Jack, ducky?”

The young man shrugs. “He’s just being an asshole,” he declares boldly, probably assuming (correctly) that if ever he could safely get away with swearing in front of his father, it was right after he walked in on Eames and Arthur having sex. “He took the car, and he won’t drive us to the mall.”

"We’re supposed to share the car, but he never does," Rose complains, temporarily more angry at her brother than her lascivious parents. Rose is sixteen now, and she has a driver’s permit, but she’s getting the short end of the stick when it comes to vehicular access.

"Here," Eames says, tossing Rose his keys, which she catches, surprised. "If there’s a single scratch on it when you get back, I’m revoking the privilege," Eames adds.

Rose smiles brightly. “Seriously?” she asks excitedly. Having access to Eames’ care is a very special advantage she’ll have over Jack, who will no doubt throw a fit when he gets home and hears of the news. Jack has been driving around an ‘86 Chevy Arthur and Eames secured for very little money simply because Arthur believes first cars should always be beaters, and children become warped if they’re given BMWs or Mercedes when they’re sixteen. 

Suffice to say, Eames’ car is much, much nicer than Jack’s. 

But he’s willing to risk a verbal lashing from his eldest if it means buying off Rose and Max. Being a parent often means making realpolitik negotiations of this nature. 

However, Max is like his Arthur—shrewd throughout mediation. “Do we have a curfew?” he asks.

Eames raises a brow at him. “Yes, of course,” and when Max responds with a sour little expression, he adds, “ _But_ …We’ll make it ten o’clock instead of nine. Deal?”

Rose smiles brightly, and even Max seems to warm a little to the idea of not totally loathing his fathers the rest of his days. “Sure, that’s cool,” he says, and Rose darts off the bed to hurry into her room—no doubt to change for the mall. 

"Thank you, daddy!" she shouts.

"You’re welcome, princess," he says as he stands up. "Have fun, ducky," he says, grinning at his boy.

Max tries not to, but a slow smile breaks across his face. “Uh-huh,” he murmurs, already focused on gathering his wallet and unplugging his phone from its charger.

Well, that’s the best one can hope for from teenagers, anyway. 

Eames leaves his room and returns to the bedroom where Arthur is just getting out of the shower. This time, they wait until the car pulls from the driveway, and triple check the door is locked, before they pick up where they left off.


	10. Arthur and Eames have a fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames have a fight
> 
> Warning: minor angst, but it ends happily ^.^

It starts as a series of little annoyances—inconveniences, really, that accumulate throughout the day. First, Eames forgets to clean the pool so Arthur can’t go for his morning swim, which puts him in a sour mood. Then, Eames notices Arthur has, once again, mixed up the recycling with the general trash, so he has to spend a good fifteen minutes elbow-deep in garbage trying to correct the mistake. 

When he points this out to Arthur, the omega counters by saying  _he_ spent at least _twenty_ minutes scrubbing the colander in the sink because  _someone_ (Eames) had allowed pasta sauce to dry and harden in the little holes. Eames snaps back, saying he doesn’t know how many alphas cook for their omega husbands, at all, let alone as regularly as he does.

Which, upon reflection, was a dumb thing to say.

Arthur storms into the bedroom and slams the door behind him.

It probably would have ended there as a harmless spat, but everything  _really_ goes to hell later when Jack wrecks his car. 

Earlier in the evening, he’d asked Eames for permission to go to a friend’s party, and Eames, not thinking it was a big deal, said it was fine. 

On his way back from the party, Jack got rear-ended by a man who’d been too busy texting to realize a car was stopped in front of him at a red light. The collision was minor—nothing more than a fender-bender, and Jack was able to drive the car home, but news of the wreck, combined with the other little annoyances accrued throughout the day, became the thing that sent Arthur and Eames’ tiff into a full-blown fight.

After checking to make sure Jack is scrape-free, Arthur turns on Eames, his eyes blazing.

"I can’t  _believe_ you gave him permission to go to that party without talking to me!” Arthur shouts—actually  _shouts_ , which is so unlike him that Jack stands paralyzed in the living room, staring at Eames with wide eyes.

Of course, Jack had known he’d fucked up, but he hadn’t thought the wreck was _that_ bad—he was fine, the accident would be covered by insurance. But the teenager had no way of knowing he was walking into a hornet’s nest of domestic disagreement.

"Arthur, it wasn’t a big deal. He always goes out with his friends," Eames sighs, already sensing that this argument is going to split and spiral in a million different directions and separate fights about any number of past quarrels.

"You’re always doing this! You  _always_ make these decisions with the kids without consulting me,” Arthur continues, just as loud, and his tone is really setting Eames’ nerves on edge.

"Lower. Your. Voice," he instructs slowly.

Sensing danger, Jack moves suddenly, hurrying to his room, and closes the door behind him.

"Oh, I’m sorry. Am I forgetting my place again? Yes, how  _dare_ I talk back to you. Excuse me,” Arthur’s voice, dripping with sarcasm, carries through the door.

***

Max and Rose are in the room already, eyes wide, when Jack walks in and closes the door.

"What the hell is going on?" Rose asks, frowning as their fathers’ voices carry through the wall. 

They’re still shouting.

Jack can count the number of times he’s heard his dads raise their voices to each other on one hand, so it’s enough of a rare phenomenon to frighten him.

"I fucked up," he says, sighing. He feels sick. There had been no way to avoid the wreck, but Jack still feels responsible. If he hadn’t gone to the party, Arthur and Eames wouldn’t be fighting right now. He trudges over to his bed and sits down heavily, kicking his boots off. "I got in a car accident."

"Are you okay?" Max asks quickly, jumping up to rush over to his side of the room and see if he’s cut up, or something.

Jack waves him away. “I’m fine. It’s not serious. But they’re fighting now because of me,” he explains, frowning at the wall as if he can see through it and witness the argument.

Eames’ voice picks up again and the three of them jump a little. He sounds _furious_. “It’s really bad, huh?” Rose asks nervously, fiddling with her cellphone. 

Jack doesn’t answer, and then they’re quiet for a long time, simply listening to the sounds of their fathers fighting. Jack can’t even pick out individual words, but he can denote the different tones—which voice is Arthur and which one is Eames. They appear to be pretty evenly matched anger-wise, and there’s lots of shouting on both sides. Arthur may be an omega, but he’s not intimidated by Eames in the slightest.

Jack remembers the first time he learned most omegas are extremely submissive. He’d been in the sixth grade, and his teacher had informed them of this fact during a sex ed lesson. He scoffed when their teacher said that part and Mrs. Gilium paused the lesson to ask him what was so funny. Jack remembers answering: “Maybe most omegas, but not my dad.”

Sometimes, he wishes Arthur would be more like a traditional omega, but only when he butts heads with Eames like this. Otherwise, he knows Eames would get bored of a submissive omega, and his father likes Arthur’s fight and spirit.

He feels especially guilty because Max looks like he’s going to be sick. His younger brother sits beside him and nervously pulls at the sleeves of his sweater, stretching the fabric. “Are they getting divorced?” he asks quietly because that’s always Max’s main concern. He’s terrified at the idea of the family breaking apart, probably because he relies so much on Arthur and Eames.

"Max, no. Of course not," he says quickly. The idea is ridiculous. He can’t imagine his fathers ever splitting up—no matter how bad the fight.

"Come here," Rose says to Max softly, and their younger brother crosses the room to sit beside her and leans his head on her shoulder.  

Rose holds his hand, and they stay like that for a long time. 

Finally, the shouting stops, and it’s quiet. Jack waits for the sound of a slamming door, or the engine of a car—anything to indicate one of his fathers has walked away from the fight, but there’s nothing.

About ten minutes pass before he summons the courage to leave the room. He’s the oldest, he reminds himself, so it’s up to him to be brave and explore the house to see what’s going on. He casts a single hesitant look over his shoulder, and sees Rose and Max are watching him, so he takes a deep breath, opens the door, and steps into the hallway.

Jack shuts the door quietly and slowly walks down the hallway—each step soft and calculated like he’s tracking wild game. He doesn’t want to make a noise and capture his fathers’ attention lest he incur any of the wrath they’ve been directing at each other.

When he peaks around the corner into the living room, he sees Eames hugging Arthur tightly, the omega’s face pressed against his shoulder. Eames gently strokes his back and kisses the top of his head as he whispers, and at first, Jack can’t make out the words, but eventually he can discern some of what’s being said.

"—don’t want you that way. I love you as you are," Eames murmurs.

When Jack looks closer, he sees Arthur has been crying—his eyes red and cheeks still damp. “Sure? I can be a pain in the ass sometimes,” he says weakly.

Eames reaches up to stroke his hair carefully, and he leans back a little until Arthur looks up and their eyes lock. “I like us as we are. I don’t want you to act differently,” Eames says quietly, sincerely, his brows raised.

"Even if you have to cook, and I talk back?" Arthur asks weakly, his tone sarcastic, but with an undercurrent of real vulnerability. 

Eames smiles slowly. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” 

Jack only retreats when Eames leans forward and presses his lips to Arthur’s mouth. He’s been through enough—he really doesn’t need to add  _watching his fathers make out_ to that list. Retreating back to his room quietly, Jack shuts the door behind him and gives Rose and Max the thumbs up. “Coast is clear,” he says, and the tension seems to drain out of Rose, but Max still looks hesitant.

"They’re not fighting anymore?" he asks warily.

"All good," Jack responds, focusing on exuding confidence because that always seems to put Max at ease.

"See?" Rose asks, smiling. "Jack said it would be okay, and it is. Come on, let’s go make a snack."

Rose leads Max out of the bedroom and toward the kitchen, and Jack stands by the doorway to eavesdrop for a moment.

"Hey, guys. Hungry?" he hears Eames call from the living room. "Don’t make sandwiches. Who raised you? Go sit down. I’ll make something proper."

Arthur laughs in response, and Jack bows his head, listening and smiling. 


	11. Arthur and Eames meet a traditional A/O couple

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames meet a traditional A/O couple

There are a few A/O couples in their immediate neighborhood, but Arthur and Eames’ go-to double date couple is Edward and Patrick. They’re around the same age bracket, and their son played football with Jack all through high school. The boy, Peter, had an unholy crush on Rose for  _years_ that she never reciprocated, but that didn’t spoil the relationship between the parents.

Edward and Patrick think Eames is a stay-at-home dad, and Arthur travels for work as an international business consultant. They’re great guys—laid back, generous, funny people Arthur and Eames genuinely look forward to going out with and inviting into their home.

The only thing is, whereas Eames and Arthur broke the A/O mold, Edward and Patrick strictly adhere to their biological labels. Edward is a tall, broad man who resembles Bear Grylls, and Patrick is slim and blond, with a bright smile. 

Edward is very much an alpha’s alpha.

The first time Arthur talked back to Eames, albeit jokingly, Edward looked pointedly at Eames as if expecting him to cuff Arthur behind the ear for his outburst. 

When Eames did nothing but smile back politely at Edward, the other alpha seemed to grasp the point—Arthur and Eames are  _not_  like other A/O couples.

Like his partner, Patrick adheres to classic omega traits. He rarely leaves the house unless it’s to run errands or he’s accompanied by Edward. He’s a timid, sweet man, who reminds Arthur of Max, and always offers to help Arthur and Eames prepare dinner, and then volunteers again for clean-up. When he’s seated beside Edward, he holds his hand or leans slightly against his frame, as if drawing strength from his mate’s mere physical presence.

Patrick doesn’t speak unless someone prompts him to, or Edward instructs him to tell a story. 

Their relationship dynamic initially disturbed Arthur because it was so different from his marriage to Eames, but over time, he began to reserve judgment and simply observe. Patrick is clearly lost without Edward’s guidance, and again he thinks of how Max carefully watches Eames sometimes, as if awaiting instructions, or out of fear he’ll leave. That is a true omega—one who is lost without an alpha.

Arthur is  _not_ a typical omega. While he enjoys submitting to Eames in the bedroom, if Eames ever handed him his empty plates wordlessly as Edward does to Patrick in an unspoken order to go clean them in the kitchen, well…it would end with a lot of broken dishes.

***

Patrick accompanies Arthur into the kitchen, leaving Eames alone with Edward and their mugs of coffee. While Eames gets along with Edward, and they have a lot in common as fellow Brits, there are some vast differences between them that occasionally create a moment of awkwardness.

Say, when Jack comes home late one evening, and to make matters worse, talks back to Arthur when he asks where Jack has been. Company be damned, Arthur chews him out in his room, while Patrick nervously tidies up in the kitchen.

Edward grins at Eames. “He’s a spirited one, isn’t he?” to which Eames can only smirk and nod. It’s true. Arthur is  _not_ a typical omega. Jack is an adolescent alpha, which technically means he outranks all omegas, including his own father, but you’d never guess that from the way Arthur parents.

"You should see him when he’s  _really_ mad,” he jokes, chuckling fondly. 

Edward laughs at that and then glances over to the kitchen. “Patrick, come here, love,” he says, patting the spot next to him on the couch, and Patrick instantly obeys, as he always does when Edward gives him a direct order. He sets down a wet dish in the rack and walks to the couch, sitting exactly where his mate indicated.

Edward smiles fondly and gently touches his cheek.

Eames has never seen Edward be cruel or demeaning to Patrick, but there is an undeniable power imbalance between them. However, Patrick appears to be one of those omegas who enjoys being dominated in every social aspect. The dynamic works for them, but Eames is unsettled by it. He’d hate if Arthur fell apart every time he left the house, or was afraid to be the ass-kicking point man Eames first fell in love with.

Eames likes that Arthur has some fire in him. He enjoys a challenge, after all.

"I get it, mate. Three kids? I’d rule them like a tyrant," Edward says, chuckling playfully.

That’s the nice thing about Edward. Even though Arthur’s brashness as an omega clearly blew his mind, he doesn’t judge their relationship. Eames affectionately remembers the first time Arthur instructed Edward to take off his shoes before he walked into the living room and the other alpha stared at him in surprise. Then obeyed.

Arthur has a way of breaking alphas.

Patrick rests his head gently against Edward’s shoulder and is quiet until Arthur returns from giving Jack the business. 

"Can I help with anything else?" he asks politely.

Arthur shakes his head and joins Eames on the couch with a heavy sigh. “No. Thank you,” he says, frowning when he looks at Eames. “You should talk to him.”

"I will," Eames promises quickly, giving Arthur’s knee a gentle squeeze.

"Say," Edward says suddenly, his face lighting up. "Why don’t the four of us go to the beach tomorrow?"

Arthur visibly perks up at that. He’s been dying to get to the beach because, while he swims in the pool every day, he hasn’t been in the ocean once the entire summer. “I’d love that,” he says immediately. “I’m pale as a ghost. Maybe I can work on my tan,” he says, smiling at Eames.

Patrick looks a little uneasy when Edward looks at him and asks, “Won’t that be fun?”

"It’s…is that appropriate, do you think?" he asks his mate, his voice lowered.

Eames immediately recognizes what he’s asking. Patrick is asking if it’s all right for him to wear nothing more than a swim trunk around another alpha—Eames.

He oftentimes forgets the finer details of the A/O etiquette code because Arthur doesn’t bother adhering to any of them. For years, he attached himself to a widowed alpha who isn’t his mate, Cobb, which is a major faux pas, and he frequently parades about the backyard patio in nothing but his swim shorts, where any alpha neighbor can see him.

And those are just a couple of the many offenses committed by his bold, beautiful darling.

Eames can’t be bothered to care about those things. If any poor, unsuspecting alpha tried to climb the fence and have his way with Arthur, he’d end up drowned in their swimming pool.

He can’t imagine how much Edward must worry about Patrick safety’s every day—Patrick, who is so  _clearly_ incapable of defending himself, and is utterly lost without the alpha telling him what to do. 

Edward takes his hand and squeezes it gently. “It’s all right, love,” he says quietly. “It’s just the four of us, and I’ll be there.”

Patrick relaxes gradually. “Oh…yeah,” he says, smiling as though realizing that had been a silly question. “Yeah, that’ll be fun.”

***

They send off Edward and Patrick with tentative plans to meet up tomorrow morning and carpool to the beach.

It isn’t until they’re in the bedroom, changing into sleeping attire, that Arthur asks out of the blue: “Do you wish I’d be more like Patrick?”

Now, Eames isn’t the brightest man in the world, but he knows a landline when he sees one. “Why on earth would you ask me that?” he counters, sliding into bed.

Arthur shrugs as he occupies himself buttoning the front of his pajama shirt. It’s the silk pair Eames likes rubbing his face against. “He’s just so obedient. I know alphas like when omegas are that way,” he says as he joins Eames beneath the covers.

Eames grins as he wraps his arms around his mate’s waist and pulls until Arthur is resting atop him. “And what makes you think I want obedient, hm?” he purrs, leaning up to nip at Arthur’s lower lip.

The omega squirms and laughs adorably, dimples and all, and cradles Eames’ face. “Just checking,” he whispers, thumb pads carefully tracing the stubble along Eames’ cheeks. “I don’t want you to be embarrassed of me…in font of other alphas.”

Eames frowns and pulls back a little, brow furrowed. “Embarrassed?” he asks, and when Arthur tries to climb off him, Eames holds him in place. “Where’d you get that idea?”

His arms lock Arthur atop him, so his mate is forced to look at Eames’ face, and he sighs, resting his hands against his chest. “I know some alphas…think I have a smart mouth. They don’t like that I’m…the way I am,” Arthur explains haltingly. 

Eames can’t stand to see Arthur second-guessing himself, and so he rolls them over so he can pin his mate to the bed and capture his undivided attention. “Well, I  _love_ the way you are, darling,” he purrs and leans down to kiss him. Arthur makes a soft noise in his mouth that normally would have inspired Eames to stick his hand down his mate’s pants, but this time he leans back to look at him. “I don’t like how other omegas are. I want  _you_. I want the Arthur who has my back in a shootout and can hot-wire a car in under thirty seconds,” he says.

"Twenty seconds," Arthur corrects cheekily.

“ _Twenty_ seconds,” Eames says, smiling. “See? If I had an obedient omega, I’d walk around being wrong all the time because no one would be correcting me.”

Arthur grins and wiggles a little beneath him. “So…you don’t want me wearing nothing but an apron, laying around waiting for you all day?”

Eames frowns thoughtfully and shrugs. “I like the naked part, but combined with the fierce, uncompromising bastard part,” Eames says. He reaches down and grips Arthur’s wrists, pinning them above his head. “Think we can manage that?”

Arthur gingerly bites his lower lip. “Yes, sir,” he says sweetly before Eames bends down to kiss him.


	12. Arthur being a badass in front of Edward and Patrick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I got a couple different prompts: one for Arthur being a badass in front of Edward and Patrick, and another one for more knotting.

The next day, Edward and Patrick come over, they pile into Eames’ car, and take off for the beach. Arthur insists on being in charge of directions, of course, and dictates the various turns as he gazes down at the GPS on his smartphone. When Eames glances in the rearview mirror, he sees Patrick curled against Edward’s side, head resting on his mate’s shoulder. 

It takes about an hour to get the beach, and during the trip, they discuss various things: sports (in the case of Edward and Eames,) their kids, and Arthur’s obsession with martial arts, which piques Edward’s interest. 

"You spar with the men at your gym?" he asks disbelievingly from the back seat.

"Sure, why not?" Arthur counters, brow furrowed, sincerely oblivious as to why that might be a problem.

Eames grins ahead at the highway.

When they reach the beach, it’s packed, and Eames has to park fairly far away from the coastline. Eames pops open the truck and starts handing items to Edward that they’ll need to carry down to the beach: towels, an umbrella. Eames slips a couple chairs under his arm and then hands the other two to Arthur. 

Edward tries to intervene. “I can take those,” he says, even though his arms are already full.

Arthur looks at him like he might be brain damaged. “I got it,” he says. “Eames, don’t forget the cooler.”

"Cheers, love," he says, leaning forward to pluck the red cooler from the back of the trunk.

Patrick stands beside Edward, glancing at each of them and their armfuls of supplies. “I can take something,” he offers, maybe because he sees Arthur carrying things.

Arthur instinctively moves to hand him a chair, but then pauses to look at Edward. Sometimes, he forgets not every A/O couple is him and Eames. He’s not sure Edward will approve of Arthur handing his mate random heavy objects to carry.

"Something light," Edward says, and so Arthur hands Patrick a stack of towels.

***

They find a spot to set up camp halfway between the dock and beach line. The sky is cloudless and the sun bakes the beach relentlessly, leaving the sand scalding beneath their feet. Eames quickly sets up the tent to provide some shade for Patrick, who is somehow even paler than Arthur, and then Edward lays out the towels to provide additional reprieve from the heat.

"The water is going to feel so good," Arthur says, smiling excitedly, and Eames grins in response. He’s willing to put up with the crowds, heat, and traffic if it means watching his mate splash around in the waves for a couple hours.

Arthur quickly sheds his shorts and t-shirt, and unselfconsciously stretches out on one of the towels, clad in the small black swimsuit Eames favours. Edward quickly looks away, pretending to straighten the other towels, and Patrick sits down beside Arthur, remaining in his t-shirt and cargo shorts.

Eames always forgets public semi-nudity is a bit of a taboo for omegas, but Arthur never seems to acknowledge the social stigma. Eames, for one, is glad. His mate looks divine supine on the sand, firm chest and stomach bathed in sunlight. He wonders if Arthur will let him get away with snapping a few photos.

It’s not until everything is situated that Eames glances around and mutters beneath his breath, “Bugger, forgot the food.”

"And sunscreen," Arthur adds, following Eames’ line of sight.

Eames sighs, only now clearly visualizing where the bag of food is in the car—on the floor, in the back, along with a separate bag for the sunscreen. “I’ll go,” he volunteers, and Edward stands, as well. 

"I’ll go with you, mate. Think I left my sunglasses in the car door."

Arthur can practically  _feel_  Patrick tense up when his mate declares he’s leaving. Edward must sense it because he looks down at where Patrick is seated atop a towel and smiles encouragingly. “I’ll be back in one minute, love.”

Eames simply turns on his heels and starts walking back toward the boardwalk, not feeling the need to give Arthur a pep talk, since he’s only going to be gone a few moments, and Arthur has never needed that kind of pampering.

While they’re gone, Arthur asks Patrick questions about their son, Peter, because that always seems to put the other omega at ease—matters of domesticity are Patrick’s domain, so he feels comfortable talking about fatherhood. They talk about what it’s like having a child in college—the mixture of pride and despair that they’re not around as much anymore.

"I haven’t touched Jack’s things," Arthur confesses, smiling slightly. "I don’t want him to think anything is changing while he’s away."

Patrick smiles in return. “We’re the exact same with Peter. His room is just as he left it.”

Patrick goes on to ask Arthur how he managed things with  _three_ children, and Arthur is just getting into the carefully orchestrated morning routine he crafted to get everyone to school on time, when a man approaches their umbrella and leans down so he can stick his head under it. 

"Well, hello there," he purrs, and Arthur instantly sits up. The man is big—over six foot, broad shoulders, clearly an alpha. He also wreaks of booze, and Arthur knows for a fact this beach has a no liquor policy, which means he either smuggled in the alcohol, or drank beforehand.

When Arthur looks past him aways down the beach, he sees a group of young alphas huddled under a couple tents, watching their friend. They’re all laughing and shoving each other. Arthur wonders how long the alphas have been watching them.

"What do you want?" he asks, as chilly as possible. Patrick shrinks at his side, casting furtive, nervous glances toward the boardwalk—probably looking to see if Edward is nearby.

The intoxicated alpha either doesn’t process his hostile tone, or dismisses its presence, because he laughs and makes a vague gesture with his hand. “You little fillies alone?”

"No," Arthur says quickly, though his tone remains calm. "Our mates will be back any second." 

The alpha laughs, straightening and swaying slightly. He’s  _hammered_ and sloppy, and Arthur stares up at him, squinting slightly, unafraid. “Those two assholes?” he cries in a mixture of amusement and disbelief. “Yeah, I seen them. I can take them, man. I’ll kick their asses.”

Patrick makes a soft, distressed sound from behind Arthur’s shoulder, but he doesn’t turn to comfort the other omega. He knows they’re not in any real danger. 

But, he  _is_ going to have to deal with this on his own. Arthur calculates Eames and Edward won’t be back from the car in time to break up the confrontation, and besides, even if they were to get back in time, they’d get in a fistfight with this idiot and probably attract the attention of his cohorts. The last thing they need is a mass brawl on the beach.

Arthur decides to settle this right now. 

He moves to stand up and Patrick grabs his arm. “No,” he whispers, but Arthur simply smiles kindly at him.

"It’s okay," he soothes, like he used to whenever Max was afraid.

Patrick again makes the soft whimpering noise, but he lets him go. Arthur slowly climbs out from under the umbrella, and the alpha openly gapes at him. He uses that to his advantage and sways his hips a little as he walks forward, closer to the man.

"Jesus Christ," the man breathes. "You’re fucking  _gorgeous_.”

"Thanks," Arthur replies before he surges forward, locks the man around the neck in a Muay Thai clench, and drags him down as he thrusts up his leg, kneeing the man in the face.

There’s a loud crunching noise when the alpha’s nose breaks, and he howls, collapsing to the beach. Patrick screams in terror, and from a distance, Arthur hears the alpha’s friends shout in surprise. One of them faintly hollers, “Ohhh, shit!”

Predictably, none of them charge Arthur. It’s one thing to fight a couple of alphas, but the men don’t know what to do in this case—after an omega has dropped one of their friends in a public place. Other people around them are also staring, but no one says anything, or moves to get involved. Everyone either looks shocked or apprehensive about what will happen next.

The alpha crawls around Arthur’s feet, cupping his face as blood pours from his nose and mouth.

"Oh fuck," he moans pathetically. "Oh fuck, you broke my nose."

"Consider yourself lucky," Arthur replies coolly, making a face when he sees some of the blood on his leg. He leans down and wipes if off. "Get out of here before my mate breaks your neck."

Arthur turns his back on the alpha, and walks back to the umbrella. He slips under it and lays across the towel, ignoring the curious stares he’s receiving, especially from Patrick.

The alpha eventually picks himself up and shuffles away, groaning the entire time.

He tries to act casual, and eventually, the other families slowly return to their previous activities, but Patrick is still watching him closely.

"Arthur," he says after a few minutes, and he internally winces. He’s expecting a lecture about the dangers of  _their kind_  confronting alphas, so he’s hesitant when he glances over to the other omega. “That…was  _awesome_ ,” Patrick says, smiling brightly.

Arthur slowly grins. “What?”

"Don’t  _what_ me. You know. That…whatever that was. Is that the martial arts you were talking about?” Patrick asks excitedly, keeping his voice lowered like the PC police are going to rush in and ticket them for not conducting themselves as proper omegas.

Arthur props up on his elbow so he can look at him. Patrick is beaming. “Yeah, some of it,” he says, smiling. “I also know jiujitsu, which is great for smaller omegas.”

"Can you show me sometime?"

Arthur is a little surprised, but he grins and shrugs minutely. “Sure, if you want.”

***

He really doesn’t want to make a big deal out of what happened, but of course Patrick excitedly tells Eames and Edward every detail when they return to the umbrella.

"And then Arthur grabbed him around the neck and  _kneed him in the face_ ,” he gushes, smiling like it’s the greatest thing in the world.

Eames chuckles and glances down the beach to the umbrella full of bros, who warily look back at them.

"Those lads down there?" he asks.

Arthur shakes his head. “Yeah, but…don’t bother. They’re not a threat.”

Edward frowns deeply. “Are you hurt?” he asks Arthur.

"He kicked his ass!" Patrick exclaims, so loud that they’re all temporarily stunned. Patrick fidgets on the towel, looking at them. "Well…he  _did_ ,” he mumbles.

Arthur grins and looks at Edward. “I’m fine, thanks.”

Eames shakes his head, chuckling again. “You should probably check on the other bloke, mate,” he says, gazing proudly at Arthur.

***

They spend all day at the beach, then drop off Edward and Patrick, and return home. Arthur has turned a lovely shade of bronze over the past couple hours, whereas Eames somehow only managed to lightly sunburn his nose and ears. 

Arthur sits on the counter of the bathroom clad in nothing but his swim shorts, gently applying some aloe vera to Eames’ nose. “I told you to reapply after you got out of the water,” he chastises playfully. 

"I’m afraid I was distracted by the fact that I’ve married the terminator," Eames responds saucily. 

Arthur laughs and slaps his bare chest lightly. “Shut up,” he snickers, hopping off the counter and walking to the shower. 

He starts the hot water and slips out of his swimsuit. 

Eames reclines against the sink, arms crossed over his chest, as he watches. He really can’t blame the poor sod for approaching Arthur. After all, he’d done the same thing a lifetime ago. Arthur smiles over his shoulder and slips into the shower, which Eames interprets as an invitation to join his mate.

He quickly strips and climbs into the tub, securing the curtain shut behind them. Arthur stands beneath the warm spray, and Eames eases up against his back, arms sliding around his waist, and lips pressing against his neck. Arthur exhales at the contact and leans back against him. “I’ll bet every alpha on that beach wanted you,” Eames whispers against his ear, and his cock gives an interested twitch when he feels Arthur shiver in response.

"But you’re mine," he growls, his hands sliding down the plane of Arthur’s stomach to cup between his legs, the omega’s cock and balls resting in his palm.

Arthur thrusts reflexively into his hand and whimpers. Encouraged, Eames reaches down between them and places his hardening length between Arthur’s slick thighs so he can thrust lazily as he gropes his mate. 

The water is hot, and the combination of steam and spray blinds him, but also enhances the experience of grinding against Arthur because Eames is guided purely by touch, taste, and smell. He laps hungrily at the water droplets decorating Arthur’s neck and shoulders, and none too gently bites the side of his throat until Arthur cries out. Eames is hard now, and Arthur responds by squeezing his legs together to provide more friction as he thrusts against him and jerks off his mate.

He grabs Arthur by the back of the neck and pushes him against the wall, pinning him so he can grind his cock against him, and Arthur gasps and whines in response, squirming and shifting until Eames realizes he’s trying to bend over. Eames can’t see, but there’s a loud clatter, and he knows those are the shampoo bottles falling to the floor of the bathtub from their usual spot on the small inlet built into the wall.

It’s just enough space for Arthur to lean his elbows against and arch his back, sticking his ass out for Eames’ taking. Eames slaps one of the protruding cheeks, drawing a sharp cry from Arthur’s throat. He gently rubs the same spot and then swats it again. “Say you’re mine,” he rasps, his erection bobbing in front of him. 

"I’m yours," Arthur gasps quickly, and Eames can feel he’s trembling when he grips his hips.

"You’re  _mine_ ,” he reiterates through clenched teeth when he pushes the head in and then shoves forward.

Between his natural wetness and the spray of the shower, Arthur is already drenched, so Eames fucks him hard with quick, jerking thrusts of his hips. The omega wails and scrambles for purchase, his hands slipping off the ledge and wall. Finally, he braces his palms agains the inlet’s wall and shoves backwards, burying Eames to the hilt every stroke and forcing a hiccuping noise from Arthur’s lungs.

Their wet skin collides loudly, and when Eames reaches around, he can feel Arthur’s cock bouncing wildly in the air as Eames fucks him. His mate’s moans reach a hysterical pitch—sustained and broken as he nears his orgasm. “Eames!” he cries, his hand dipping between his thighs to grip his dick. 

Eames grabs Arthur by the waist and drags him backward as he throws his hips forth, setting a brutal pace while Arthur’s hand frantically tugs until he’s coming so hard that Eames is fairly convinced his mate’s inner muscles are going to snap off his cock. Arthur shouts, bucking and squirming as he rides out his orgasm, and then he’s very still, remaining bent at the waist, as Eames pulls out.

His cock is still painfully hard, but he doesn’t want to knot in the shower.

"Go dry off and wait for me on the bed," he orders simply, and Arthur’s omega mind—running on nothing but endorphins, responds, and he obeys dutifully. 

Eames counts to thirty in his head, breathing deeply, and then follows.

He hastily dries off, and when he walks into the bedroom, Arthur is positioned in child’s pose, arms extended above his head, ass pointed towards the bathroom, and Eames. He sees immediately that Arthur has dried everywhere but the area between his legs, which is still dripping wet.

"Good boy," he comments softly, and Arthur moans happily in response. "So good for me," Eames says again as he climbs into bed and presses his palm to the base of Arthur’s spine. Without having to be commanded, the omega arches his back and moves onto his elbows so his ass is at crotch level. "Christ," Eames breathes, and he can practically feel Arthur glow pridefully in response. "This is why we have three kids, you know."

If Arthur feels bashful, he certainly doesn’t show it because he simply pushes his rear backwards, cheeks brushing against the alpha’s straining erection. Eames grabs his hips and pushes back inside, the wet push of his dick into Arthur’s slick insides muted by the omega’s stunned cry.

Arthur collapses forward and presses his cheek to the mattress, which is Eames’ favorite position, because he delights in seeing the pleasure on his mate’s face, with the occasional exclamation of a flash of pain.

Arthur likes it to hurt, just a little.

When the omega pinches his eyes closed and his lips fall apart in silent ecstasy, Eames comes undone. He pounds into Arthur, fucking him across the mattress a few inches with each stroke, and then they collapse together on their sides. “Do it, do it,” Arthur moans helplessly, frantic, squirming in Eames’ arms.

Eames tries to gentle him by kissing the side of his neck and holding him tightly, but Arthur always acts a little crazy until he feels Eames growing inside him. Then he moans softly and tries to grind down on Eames’ cock even though he’s as deep as he can go, and Arthur will cry that it’s too much in a couple seconds. “Fill me up,” he begs, and Eames strokes his stomach slowly.

He grows…and grows, and like clockwork, Arthur makes a sound of distress, and when Eames looks at the side of his face, he sees his mate’s brow furrowing, and a tear sliding down his cheek. Eames soothes him again, kisses his cheek, and tells him he’s doing so well.

"Can’t," Arthur softly responds.

"You can," Eames encourages, kissing his ear.

Finally, just when it seems as though the knot will explode from Arthur’s pelvis, Eames comes in a series of waves that leave Arthur a trembling, sticky mess in his arms. The omega moans throughout Eames’ orgasm, overcome with happiness that he is finally being properly claimed by his mate. 

Of course, that euphoria will wear off in about twenty minutes, and then Arthur will be horrified, muttering about disgusting alphas and their primitive ways, but during  _this_ time, Arthur is blissful. He’s full—complete, and exactly where he belongs.

"I’m yours," he whispers hoarsely.

Eames’ arms tighten around his waist and he kisses Arthur’s wet locks. “That’s right, my love.”


	13. Arthur teaches Patrick self-defense, Arthur and Patrick have a sex talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had two prompts: one for Arthur teaching Patrick some self-defense, and then Arthur and Patrick having a sex talk, so I combined them into this mini-drabble.

Patrick calls their house a couple days after their trip to the beach, and at first, all Arthur can hear is a muffled exchange between Patrick and Edward. He waits patiently. This isn’t unusual whenever Patrick calls him. The other omega is probably asking Edward permission for something—some request—with his hand covering the receiver. 

Arthur’s eyes roll to the ceiling and he sits in the kitchen, waiting.

Finally, Patrick speaks into the phone.

"Arthur? Hi, sorry about that."

"That’s okay," he replies, lightly and graciously.

"Um, are you busy? I can call back…"

Arthur smiles slowly. This is classic Patrick, assuming he’s in the way even when he’s clearly not. “Not busy at all,” he answers, crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair. Whatever the other omega is about to ask him, it’s big. Patrick sounds more nervous than usual, which is really saying something. 

"Oh…good," Patrick says, not sounding relieved in the slightest. "Um, remember before—at the beach, I mean—when we were talking about the martial arts stuff?"

Arthur perks up a bit at that. He’d assumed Patrick was calling for advice about Peter, or laundry, or one of the other thousands of monotonous tasks omegas are required to perform every day that composes most of their conversations.

"Sure, did you want me to come over and teach you some stuff?" he asks, deciding he’d better to cut to the chase or they’ll be on the phone all day.

Patrick hesitates even though Arthur is fairly certain that’s exactly what he wants. He again waits patiently because he knows this mustn’t be easy for the other omega. This is clearly one hundred percent his idea—a rare moment in Patrick’s life. He’s probably worried about a million different things, including if Edward will be angry with him, even though the alpha must have given his permission, or there’s no way Patrick would have called him in the first place.

"Would that…if you’re not busy, I mean."

"Yup, how about in an hour?"

More silence.

"Um, yeah. That’d be…that’s great."

"Good, see you then," he says, smiling, and hangs up the phone.

This is going to be fun.

***

Their house is spotless, as usual. Arthur supposes it should be, considering Patrick spends the entire day inside. He takes a minute, or so, to look around the living room at their framed photos, making occasional comments about them. Patrick fields questions, standing a few feet from Arthur, arms nervously crossed over his chest. Like Arthur, he’s dressed in workout attire—sweats and a t-shirt.

Arthur and Patrick don’t often socialise without at least one of the alphas present, and even though Arthur is an omega, Patrick is clearly nervous. Probably because, the last time he saw Arthur, the omega was breaking an alpha’s nose.

"Those are new curtains," Arthur comments, pointing at the front window.

Patrick nods a little, his lips quirking into a smile. “Yeah, from Sweden.”

"They’re beautiful," Arthur coos. 

Patrick lights up a bit at the compliment. An omega’s prize possession is their home—a nest they toil day and night to make comfortable and aesthetically pleasing. Knowing Arthur approves of his home seems to put Patrick at ease. His abilities as a homemaker are unparalleled. All is right in the world.

They push back the couches and the coffee table and use the center of the room as their sparring area, and Arthur is surprised to find showing Patrick some jiujitsu really isn’t that awkward. The other omega gets over the touching-another-man-who-isn’t-his-husband thing fairly quickly, and he’s pleased to find Patrick is actually a quick learner, not to mention lithe and dexterous.

Arthur is just showing him how to take someone’s back and choke them out when Edward walks through the front door.

There’s a ridiculous moment where Arthur is attached to Patrick’s back, legs hooked around his thighs, arms secured around his neck, and he locks eyes with the alpha.

"Hi there," Arthur says, smiling brightly.

Edward blinks and furrows his brow, and Arthur quickly lets go of the other omega. Patrick scrambles to his feet and quickly rushes to the door to help his mate carry in some grocery bags. “Arthur,” Edward says in greeting eventually, simply nodding in his direction.

They’re both flushed from sparring, but Patrick positively glows when he smiles excitedly at his mate. “Eddie, I’m really good,” he gushes, voice lowered, but Arthur can still easily hear him. He smiles to himself when he sees Edward glance back at him.

"Yeah?" his mate cautiously replies, placing two of the bags on the kitchen table. "Well, go easy, okay? I don’t want you to get hurt."

Arthur feels a swell of pride when he sees Patrick wave him off casually. “I won’t, but Arthur says I’m a fast learner.”

"Well, if  _Arthur_  says so,” Edward says, grinning as he exits the kitchen and looks at Arthur, who remains seated in the middle of their living room. “Then I guess you are, if the ass-kicker extraordinaire says so,” he adds playfully, winking at Arthur.

Arthur smirks, but sobers when he sees Patrick earnestly glancing between them. 

The other omega’s attention is diverted when Edward gently grips his chin and tilts his head up. “Poppet, I’m going to help Eames fix his car. I’ll be back in a couple hours.”

Patrick nods a little, and Arthur rolls his eyes before he butts in: “Just tell him to take it into the mechanic.”

The alpha tisks at him. “And revoke our alpha cards? Heaven forbid,” he cries, waving at them as he departs. 

Once Edward is gone, Arthur looks expectantly at Patrick, assuming they’ll resume the lesson, but now the other omega looks distracted and worried. “What?” he asks, frowning as he straightens up. Everything had been going so well.

Patrick shakes his head and slowly moves to sit on the couch. “Nothing,” he says quietly, but that clearly isn’t true. 

Arthur stands up and joins him on the couch, hands clasped over his knees. “Tell me,” he softly requests. He replays the last couple of minutes in his mind: Edward, the groceries, fixing Eames’ stupid car. He can’t pinpoint anything that should have upset Patrick.

Oftentimes, it’s a waiting game with Patrick. Eventually, Arthur always silently smokes him out of his fortress of solitude. It’s actually a fun moment when Patrick visibly cracks and the truth comes pouring forth.

"Do you ever worry things are getting stale in your marriage, and Eames might leave you?" he asks in a single breath.

Arthur blinks and answers: “No.” Patrick visibly deflates, and Arthur silently curses himself for reacting so flippantly. “Er, well, I understand that concern, though.”

Patrick frowns at him. “You do? You think Eddie is bored of me?”

He quickly shakes his head. “No, I meant, I understand the  _general_ concern. Edward adores you, Pat. How can you even think otherwise?”

The other omega smiles a little at Arthur’s observation. Edward dotes on Patrick constantly, and the omega is clearly the center of his every waking thought. However, the expression soon vanishes from his face, overcome by the same worried, furrowed brow. “He thinks you’re so cool, after the beach thing,” he mumbles.

Arthur has to stop himself from audibly groaning  _ohhhh_  when everything clicks into place. Edward calling him an  _ass-kicker_ and then winking because he’s a dumb alpha who thinks winking at omegas gives them a thrill, even though, in Arthur’s case, that only works if it’s Eames doing it. Patrick is  _jealous_ , and even though it’s totally misguided, he understands the impulse. 

"Pat, Edward doesn’t want an omega like me. Frankly, I think I scare him a little bit," Arthur says dryly, thinking back to all the times the alpha stared at him like he has two heads. "He loves  _you._ You’re his mate.”

Patrick tugs at the sleeves of his sweatshirt and nods hesitantly, as if slowly buying into Arthur’s line of logic. “I was just…wondering…if you do anything…you know.  _Special_ for Eames,” Patrick says haltingly, glancing at the door like Edward might come busting in again at any moment. Then he leans forward and whispers, “ _in the bedroom_.”

Arthur has to check himself so he doesn’t burst out laughing, but once that immediate impulse passes, he smiles fondly at the other omega. He hasn’t felt the urge to pinch another omega’s cheeks since Max was a little boy, but Patrick is just so damn  _adorable_  sometimes.

"Oh…sure," he says, marvelling that he somehow first got roped into a jiujitsu lesson, and now a sex talk in the middle of an otherwise totally ordinary Sunday. "Well, if he’s in rut, or even sometimes when he’s not, I tie his hands against the headboard with something soft, like a tie."

Patrick’s eyes widen a little. “And he lets you?”

Arthur sometimes forgets how submissive omegas generally are. Alphas are supposed to be the aggressors in the bedroom, and for some A/O couples, an omega tying up an alpha is an extreme taboo. “Sure,” he says lightly, smirking a little when he recalls the way Eames eyes lit up when he revealed the silk tie while they were in bed.

"I don’t think Eddie would like that," Patrick says gravely, shaking his head.

Arthur tries not to look too predatory when he quickly responds: “Oh, he’ll like it. Just try it. You’ll be surprised.”

Patrick shifts on the couch as he mulls over that bit of information, and Arthur is a little surprised when he pipes up again. “What else?” he asks, casting a nervous glance Arthur’s way.

He tilts his head as he eyes the mantel and the framed photos of their family and thinks. “Well, alphas like to show their strength. It’s nice to be passive, and…” Arthur searches for the right word, “obedient, but…sometimes they like when you push back a little.”

"How?" Patrick asks, eyes wide and so earnest again that Arthur is again seized by the desire to gently pat his hand.

"I dunno, grab his hair, slap his face a little, or something," he responds without really thinking it through. Patrick’s face instantly flushes red, and his gaze drops to the carpet, cluing him in that he may have gone too far. "That’s…just a suggestion."

Patrick is quiet for a long time, and Arthur is just beginning to wonder if he should apologize for bringing filth into their home, when the other omega speaks: “You…do that stuff?”

Arthur stops himself from saying  _On a Monday, yeah_.

"Uh…sure. I’ve done that stuff before," he pauses, squinting slightly up at the light fixture, and adds, "Eames likes a little light choking, too. You should try that."

Patrick stares back at him, stunned.

Uncomfortable with the silence, Arthur plows forth. “The key is, to make him feel like top dog. Alphas get off on that, so moan, go crazy in bed, but also make him have to earn it, you know? It’s better for them that way.”

"I should get a pen," Patrick mumbles, and then looks confused when Arthur bursts out laughing.


	14. Jack’s friends are in love with Arthur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack’s friends are in love with Arthur

Jack invites his friend, Fitz, over to study for geometry, but he probably should have known that wasn’t actually going to happen. Fitz is a good guy, and he plays football with Jack, but he’s not exactly student of the year. 

The second they walk into Jack’s bedroom room, Fitz commandeers the desktop computer, while Jack flops down on his bed and pulls out his geometry binder and notes. He’s technically failing math, but his teacher has been letting him skate by with Cs because he’s the school’s best quarterback, an arrangement Max has expressed disdain for. 

Max bailed the second he learned Fitz was coming over, probably because Fitz is an alpha, which makes him uncomfortable, but also because he resents the jock culture at their school. Truthfully, Jack hates that he gets preferential treatment too, and he’d really like to pass this next test on the up-and-up and prove everyone (see: Max) wrong, but first he needs to get his study partner to  _focus_.

That doesn’t happen.

Fitz ends up looking at online porn over Jack’s objections.

"Come  _on_ , dude,” Jack groans, and keeps his chin deliberately lowered so he isn’t tempted to look at the moaning, writhing omega on-screen. Fitz has the volume turned way down, but he’s still nervous his dads will hear the noise.

"What?" Fitz answers obliviously, clicking on another website filled with naked omegas, no doubt. He’s quietly thoughtful for a moment, and then: "This one sort of looks like Arthur."

"Dude!" Jack cries, throwing up his hands, but deliberately (so,  _so_ deliberately) keeping his gaze diverted from the computer. The last thing in the world he needs right now is to see a porn star who looks like his father. “Why do you say fucked up shit like that?”

Fitz shrugs and clicks out of the browser, finally. He turns idly on Jack’s swivel desk chair, and then stoops down to unzip his backpack and tugs out his geometry textbook. When he opens the book on his lap, Jack relaxes incrementally, naively believing they’re finally going to get down to business studying. 

Two minutes pass in blissful silence before Fitz asks: “How old is Arthur?”

Jack squints at him suspiciously. “I don’t know, man. Why?”

The other alpha frowns thoughtfully and shakes his head. “Just a question,” he says lightly even as Jack glares at him. Fitz turns his attention back to the notes.

A few more minutes pass.

"How long have your folks been married?"

Jack throws down his binder to the bed. “Okay, what’s going on, man?” he spits, seriously pissed off now. First, the weird comment about Arthur looking like the porn star, and now all these weird questions. Jack’s beginning to feel really uncomfortable.

"Nothing," Fitz says casually, looking down at the papers nestled on his lap. 

They’re relatively quiet the rest of the study session, but Jack makes a mental note not to invite Fitz back over again.

***

Jack asks if his friend Steve can come over to study.

"Sure. What happened to Fitz?" Arthur asks as he folds the laundry on the master bed.

Jack stands in the doorway and shrugs, staring at his shoes. “He’s…busy,” his son answers evasively. 

Arthur picks up a freshly laundered t-shirt and shakes it out in his hands while gazing at him. Jack isn’t saying something, but he doesn’t want to pry. “Yeah, tell Steve that’s fine.”

It turns out to be terrible timing.

Arthur is bent over the sink, scrubbing dishes when he feels a strong set of fingers grasp his hips. A pair of lips press gently to his neck, and he smiles, for a split second believing the mouth to belong to Eames. He straightens and leans back for a moment, but suddenly his mind clears and he realizes it’s  _not_ Eames, but  _Steve_. Arthur swears and shoves backwards, struggling, and darting away until he’s on the opposite side of the room.

His heart hammers in his chest and he breathes heavily, staring at the alpha with wide, terrified eyes. 

Steve stands there, eyes glazed, lips parted slightly as he stares back at Arthur, and he’s filled with dread when he realizes the young man is in heat. 

Arthur glances to the kitchen counter where the butchering knives rest inside a wood block. He can probably dive to the side and draw the biggest blade before Steve attacks him.

His stomach drops when he remembers Eames is gone for the afternoon, running errands, and he doesn’t know if Jack will be able to help fight off Steve. His son is still in his room, probably studying, the door shut.

Neither of them move.

Arthur curses himself for being so stupid and careless. Jack has just experienced his first couple real ruts, and they’d had to send him away to safe houses during that time, but it never occurred to him to account for Jack’s  _friends_ ' heats too. He'd invited an alpha  _in rut_ into his house, and now he’s trapped in a room with him.

"You smell…good," Steve murmurs, dazed, like he’s just woken from a long sleep.

He takes a step forward and Arthur holds up his hands, a pitiful defense against an alpha in rut. Steve could tear off his arms and fuck him anyway in this state. 

Of course, Arthur has bullshitted his way out of tighter spots than this, so he squares his shoulders, and says in his best point man voice: “Steven Hamilton.”

Miraculously, the alpha stops his advance and looks up. Maybe he’s not in full rut, after all. Maybe there’s still part of his brain that’s functioning consciously, and Arthur can get through to him. 

"You go home right now, young man," Arthur says commandingly.

The alpha furrows his brow, and stands, swaying slightly, for several moments. Arthur, once again, glances at the knives. If he screams for Jack, Steve will attack him, he’s certain of it. An alpha in rut isn’t afraid of other alphas, or an omega like Arthur, necessarily, but maybe there is one person he’s still afraid of. “Go home right now, or I’ll call your mother,” Arthur adds.

Steve frowns and blinks owlishly at him before he turns on his heels and walks from the kitchen, through the short hallway, and out the front door.

Arthur clutches the edge of the counter and gazes out the window over the sink to watch Steve walk down the driveway, just to make sure he’s actually leaving.

Then he bows his head and breathes deeply, trying to calm the frantic beating of his heart.

***

When Jack is a senior in high school, he befriends another alpha named Richard, who wears suits and actually likes people to call him  _Richard_ , not Rich, and he takes himself extremely seriously, and he’s totally, utterly in love with Arthur.

Richard loves how Arthur dresses, and how he carries himself and speaks, and he does a terrible job of hiding his brutal crush.

It starts with Richard hanging around Arthur longer than he actually spends time with Jack. Whenever he comes over, the alpha inevitably wanders from Jack’s room to find Arthur in the living room or kitchen, and sits with him as he works.

Things escalate when Richard brings him flowers, and he stutters through a thank you, while Eames practically doubles over in silent laughter and has to rush from the room before he says anything inappropriate.

Eames thinks it’s a harmless crush, but Arthur knows better.

He knows better because he’s been in Richard’s place before, and he aches in a mixture of nostalgia and sympathy whenever the young alpha stares at him with open earnestness. 

Arthur has been there. There were the times he’d tried to kiss already mated alphas, and the six months, or so, when he’d been very young and harbored a severe crush on Cobb that had ended up being embarrassing for everyone.

Because he knows the terrible reality of such things, he doesn’t shoot down Richard until the young man hands him a neatly wrapped gift one evening, and when Arthur opens it, he sees it’s a box with a small charm necklace displayed inside. The charm is an ornate wave, and it’s actually quite lovely.

"Because you like swimming," Richard explains, and Arthur smiles faintly at him.

That, and water is the international symbol for omegas because of certain biological responses in the bedroom. Waves, water, the  _ocean_ , these are all symbols for omegas, and they’re extremely intimate emblems.

Unlike the flowers, and the other small tokens Richard has brought him in the past, this necklace is  _clearly_ a romantic gesture.

"It’s beautiful," Arthur responds sincerely because he knows he  _has_ to say something kind before he lowers the hammer.

Richard’s eyes brighten, but only for a second because he sees the hesitancy on Arthur’s face. “But…you don’t want it.”

Arthur sighs and slowly shuts the box, handing it back to Richard, who accepts it slowly. “Richard, I’m married. Happily married, actually.”

"Oh, I know. This wasn’t…I just saw it, and thought of you, is all. You don’t have to wear it, or anything," Richard babbles in explanation, and Arthur let’s him talk even though he’s lying. 

He grips the alpha’s arm and squeezes it gently, smiling kindly at him. “I know. It’s beautiful, though. Save it for when you meet your mate, okay?”

Richard smiles tightly, clearly wounded, and his response looks so familiar to Arthur that he has to look away. It’s strange to think that he’ll be nothing but a faint, maybe even fond, memory in Richard’s mind when he recounts the first time an omega shot him down to his future mate.

This time, Richard actually  _does_ study with Jack, locked away in his son’s room, far away from Arthur.

Any sadness he feels vanishes when Eames returns home, after Richard is gone (thankfully,) and crows, “Where’s your other husband, then?”

Arthur swats at his chest, and then starts to take the groceries Eames’ brought home out of the bags. “He left, after showering me with jewelry, I’ll have you know,” he says, grinning at Eames.

Eames straightens and furrows his brow a bit. “Is that right?” he asks, frowning thoughtfully. “Cheeky bugger.”

Apparently, Eames, like Arthur, had previously underestimated the degree of Richard’s crush. Arthur opens the refrigerator and starts piling the fresh fruits and vegetables into their respective crispers. “Mhm,” he hums in the affirmative. 

"Well, you do inspire long-term pining, my love," Eames says, and Arthur smiles to himself. "I happen to know that from firsthand experience."

When he’s standing again, Arthur closes the fridge door, and slides his arms around Eames’ neck, smiling happily when his mate wraps his arms around his waist. “But I love  _you_ back,” he points out.

“ _Now_ you do. Wasn’t always the case,” Eames responds, grinning.

"Yes," Arthur agrees, regarding their history and the current state of things. "But now I do. Very much," he whispers, an inch from Eames’ lips, and then closes the distance between them.


	15. Max and Ravi at MIT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max and Ravi at MIT

The move happens in a blur. 

Max remembers Arthur hugging him tightly—so tightly, and then Eames coaxing him to let go. Of course, then Eames does the same thing, and whispers, “You call us if you need anything, ducky. Call anytime. Even if it’s the middle of the night.”

He remembers Eames and Ravi moving most of his things into the U-Haul. 

And then he remembers the drive—the long, long drive through states he’d never seen before. Max is very quiet during the trip, his nose practically pressed to the glass as he gazes out the window. The world is huge, and foreign, and several times he has to stop himself from telling Ravi to stop the truck, turn around, and take him home.

He already misses his parents like a limb. 

Max glances down at his phone to the texts he’s saved from Jack:  _Kick ass, killer!_ and Rose:  _You can do it. Call me ASAP._

He doesn’t tell Ravi to turn around.

They have to stay in two motels on their trip east, and Max barely sleeps in the strange beds. He’s awake all night, startling at every little sound in the room and outside. Max is afraid if he falls asleep, he’ll have a nightmare, and frighten or weird out Ravi.

He’s so embarrassed that he’s eighteen and all he wants to do is run back to Arthur and Eames and stay with them forever.

Ravi must notice he’s borderline catatonic, but he doesn’t say anything, thankfully. Instead, the alpha lets him be quiet, and dutifully navigates the vehicle eastwards. 

Cambridge is beautiful with its rows of old red brick buildings, and bridges, and Max perks up when he sees the water extending beside the street. He thinks maybe life won’t be so different here if he still lives by water. 

"Is that the ocean?" he asks.

"It’s the Charles River," Ravi answers. "It eventually reaches the Atlantic," he adds, smiling affectionately at Max.

Max immediately wonders if that was a dumb question, then he remembers that some of the smartest people in the world go to MIT, and they’re mostly all alphas and betas. He can’t ask those kinds of stupid questions in class. He can’t stand out anymore than he already does as a newly emancipated omega.

Ravi has rented an apartment on the second floor of a house. It’s small, but sweet, and it has a kitchen that Max explores as soon as he’s inside. Eames had insisted on teaching him to cook—a valuable skill set for an omega to possess, and one his omega father is sorely lacking in.

Ravi watches him, a soft expression on his face. When Max finally notices, he smiles slowly—the first time he has smiled since leaving home, and he doesn’t realize it until his cheeks pull, sore, unaccustomed to the dimpling. “What?” he asks playfully.

"Nothing," the alpha responds quietly. "Just nice to see you here."

Ravi joins him in the kitchen, and listens to Max list the things they’ll need in order for him to cook: pots, pans, more cutlery, but eventually he takes Max gently by the wrist, and then slides his arms around his waist. He goes quiet, and smiles shyly when he realizes they’re about to kiss.

And then they do.

***

Max FaceTimes Rose from the app on his phone when he’s sitting on the porch outside, and recalls too late the time change in Paris, and then he sees Rose answer in a pitch-black room, his sister clearing having awoken in the middle of the night.

"Sorry," Max winces, but Rose is already waving off his apology.

"S’ok. How’re things? Do you like it?" she asks sleepily.

"Yeah, it’s nice," he answers, hoping he looks and sounds braver than he feels.

Rose seems to see through the act. “It gets easier. I was so homesick for about a month.”

Max perks up a little. “Really?” His sister is tough as nails. If even she missed home, maybe he’s not the big crybaby he thought. 

"Oh yeah," she says, barely stifling a yawn. "I cried to Ariadne, like, all the time. You’ll get used to things," she adds encouragingly.

After they hang up, Max returns to the upstairs apartment and begins unpacking. Ravi returns a half an hour later, arms full of bags of kitchenware. “How did you afford all this?” Max exclaims, pulling out the beautiful cookware. 

"Erm," Ravi responds, looking sheepish. "Eames lent me some money to help you get settled."

Max grins and kisses his cheek. “This is great,” he sighs, delighting in the task of putting away the new stuff. For some reason, it’s rather therapeutic to see the kitchen transform from the dingy reality of a bachelor pad to something more domestic.

When the kitchen is all set up, Max takes a small bag into the bathroom and starts filling the medicine cabinet with his grooming items, and a small amber bottle of pills. Before he left, he filled a prescription for suppressants, not just so he won’t get pregnant (that isn’t an issue yet, considering he and Ravi haven’t consummated their relationship,) but mostly so he won’t wreak of omega pheromones when he’s sitting in class.

Arthur had emphatically reviewed the omega reproductive cycle with Max before he left, and Max thinks he knows why. He’s seen quite a few family photos of an extremely pregnant Arthur taken suspiciously close to Arthur and Eames’ wedding anniversary. Jack must have been a surprise, which means Arthur probably did’t know squat about his heat cycles. That explains why he’s always been overzealous in educating Max about his heats and reproductive schedule.

Max washes his face, takes one of the pills, brushes his teeth, and changes into his pajamas. He’s  _exhausted_  from moving, and he hasn’t gotten more than a few hours of sleep in the past three days. When he flips off the light and walks into the small bedroom, he finds Ravi already under the covers, reading an intimidatingly thick textbook.

"What’s that?" he asks, peeling back the sheets, and sliding under them.

"Hm? Oh…" Ravi takes off his glasses and waves them through the air. "It’s Ligand field theory," he says dismissively, and then clarifies, "The, um..bonding arrangement of coordination complexes—It’s…not very interesting," he says sheepishly, chuckling as he sets it aside on a nearby side table.

Max nods a little, again feeling like a dumb kid out of his depths. Everyone at MIT is as smart as Ravi, and probably discuss Ligand field theory really casually at cocktail parties, or whatever people at MIT do. Max doesn’t even know.

After Ravi turns out the light, the alpha spoons him, and Max burrows into his pillow, sighing happily. When it’s like this—just the two of them, the world feels smaller and less scary. Max knows he can do  _this_ —be with Ravi as his mate, but he doesn’t know if he can do everything else. For the millionth time, he wonders if he should just stay in the apartment and be a homemaker like 90 percent of the other omegas in the world.

"Ravi?" he asks softly, just in case the alpha is asleep.

"Mm?" the alpha responds immediately, and Max wonders if he should pretend to fall asleep, but he knows he’ll never be able to really get any rest if these cancerous thoughts are circulating in his mind.

"Do you think I’m smart enough to do well at MIT?" he asks quietly.

The alpha’s arm tightens around his waist and he presses his cheek against Max’s. “Of course I do,” he murmurs, kissing his jaw. “Why would you ask such a thing?”

Max shrugs, or  _tries_ to shrug, but Ravi has him wrapped up so snugly he really can’t move. “Just scared,” he confesses, and Ravi makes a soft, pained noise, like he hates the thought of Max ever suffering.

"You’re going to be brilliant, priya. I know it."  

***

The first week at MIT is hell.

Max is so intimidated by the bustling campus, and he keeps his gaze fixated to the path under his feet as he walks from building-to-building. He sits at the back of the classrooms and lecture halls in case he has a panic attack and needs to run out.

Luckily, he never has to do that, but he takes copious amounts of notes, and worries endlessly over his classes. He spends hundreds of dollars on textbooks, and his syllabus for the first semester alone is terrifyingly long. 

That first week, Max walks from campus, to the apartment, and then back again, and he doesn’t look anyone in the eye, until one day a young woman sits beside him in his biological chemistry class. “Hi,” she says, and Max startles, ridiculously glancing  _behind_ him initially because he’s convinced the girl is speaking to someone behind him.

"Uh…hi," Max responds when he finally realizes she must be addressing him.

"I’m Helen," she says, peering at him through her glasses and smiling. Helen sticks out her hand, and Max looks down at her hand where there’s about a thousand rubber bracelets secured around her wrist.

"Um, hi," he responds inarticulately and shakes her small, delicate hand. Everything about her seems miniaturized. "I’m Max."

"You’re an omega, right?" she asks suddenly, and Max feels his chest tighten. His first impulse is to look around and make sure no one overheard the question. Luckily, all the other students seem preoccupied with examining their notes lest the professor drop a pop quiz on them at the beginning of class. 

"Uh…yeah," Max answers quietly, cursing himself for thinking he could keep something so obvious under wraps the entire time he was at MIT. Of course Helen knows. Half the class probably knew the second Max walked into the room.

Helen smiles brightly. “Wow, that’s amazing,” she says, her eyes shining. “I mean, not many omegas go to college. Your SAT scores must have been  _crazy_ good. I’m like, hella impressed.” 

Max blinks. He doesn’t know what to be more amazed over: Helen’s positive reaction to his omeganess, or her use of the word  _hella_. “I got a perfect score,” Max responds honestly, still feeling a little numb, like he might be dreaming. He’s gone over the scenario of someone at MIT discovering he’s an omega a thousand times, and never once did the event unfold in his brain like it is right now with bubbling, excited Helen.

"Wow!" she exclaims, giggling excitedly. "That’s incredible. Can I study with you some time? I swear, I’m not, like, a mooch or anything. I graduated with honors. I’m just…a little freaked out, this being my first year, and I dunno…it’d be nice to have a study buddy."

Max licks his lips and nervously glances around again. “Uh…sure,” he says, flipping open his notebook and writing his address, along with his phone number, on the corner of a page that he tears off and hands to Helen. “Call me and we’ll work something out,” he manages to say, and silently applauds himself for sounding composed and casual, like he invites people over all the time.

When Helen reaches forward to accept the bit of paper, he gets a whiff of her perfume, and beneath that, the unmistakable scent of beta. Like Rose. 

Max instantly knows he’s made a friend, and the elated feeling carries him home after class, whereupon he excitedly tells Ravi the good news.

"That’s wonderful, priya," Ravi says, standing in the kitchen, dressed in his lab coat. He’s probably going to be late for his work, but he doesn’t seem to be stressing over tardiness as he chats with Max about his day. "Invite anyone you want."

***

Their schedule is chaotic. Max is at classes all day, and Ravi goes to the lab in the afternoon, and doesn’t get back until the evening, which gives Max just enough time to prepare dinner for them, and then comes study time, and then sleep.

One Saturday, Helen calls and asks if she can come over to study for a big upcoming chemistry test they have. Max consents and then spends a frantic hour cleaning and making sure everything is perfect. Ravi watches him from their small kitchen table, amused. “Max, she’s not the health inspector.” 

"What? I know, I’m just—" the front door bell rings. "Oh, shoot," Max grumbles, and races down the stairs to answer it, and he can just barely make out the sound of Ravi chuckling in his wake.

When Max peers through the door, he sees Helen smiling brightly, her throat wrapped in a bright purple and yellow scarf even though it really isn’t that cool out yet, and her short hair pulled back with a neon pink hair clip.

Beside Helen is a tall young man with waistlong dreadlocks. 

"Max, hi!" Helen says brightly when he opens the door. "This house is  _gorgeous_. This is Omar, by the way. He’s a friend from my biomolecular class. He’s, like, _totally_ brilliant. Is it okay I invited him?” she states/asks in a single breath, even though she’s already walking inside and unwinding her scarf from around her throat.

Max opens his mouth, but doesn’t speak in time. Omar steps inside, smiling shyly, “Hi. Sorry, is this weird? I didn’t want to invite myself over. But Helen said—”

"Oh, Max is totally cool. It’s cool, isn’t it?" she asks earnestly, her brow furrowing adorably.

And, well, Max doesn’t really want to say no. Besides, Omar seems like a decent enough — Max inhales deeply — beta. Another perfectly pleasant beta.

"Sure. Come upstairs," he says, smiling.

It only occurs to him halfway up the steps that he hasn’t told Helen that he lives with Ravi, an alpha. When Ravi stands up from the kitchen table, smiles, and extends a hand toward Helen, he’s surprised that she doesn’t bat an eyelash. “Hi! I’m Helen,” she says.

"Hello, Helen. Max told me all about you. And…?" Ravi asks, looking past her.

"Hey. I’m Omar," the other beta says, leaning forward to shake Ravi’s hand.

"Um, we…live together," Max says, feeling inexplicably shy.

Helen laughs suddenly, snorting a little. “Duh, I smelled an alpha on you, like, the second we met,” she says, rolling her eyes. 

Max’s eyes widen and he flushes, but Ravi bursts out laughing. “Well, touche, our little friend,” Ravi counters smoothly. “Anyone want a drink?”

Ravi puts off his trip to the lab a little longer to make them some tea, and the three of them set up camp in their modest living room, splaying out their books and pages of notes. 

"Thank you," Max says softly, smiling when Ravi winks at him, and bids them all goodbye before he slips out.

"He’s hot," Helen says approvingly, and Max notices when Omar looks a little peeved at that statement.  _Interesting_.

"Thanks," Max answers, smiling down at his notes.

He’s surprised to find belying Helen’s bubbly personality is a shrewd, vise-like mind that has an amazing ability to retain and recall seemingly limitless quantities of information. Omar is actually a sophomore, but confesses he studies with Helen because she’s smarter than more students in his level, and also, Max suspects, because she’s prettier than most of the other women at MIT.

Helen unceremoniously shuts her book. “Smoke break!” she declares, and reaches out to grab Max’s hand, pulling him to his feet. “Be back in a second, Omar!” Then they’re racing down the steps, and Max doesn’t have a chance to speak until they’re standing on the front porch, and he’s watching Helen light up a cigarette.

"I don’t smoke," he finally says, confused.

Helen exhales a stream of smoke and rolls her eyes. “I know that, Max. I wanted to talk to you alone.”

"Oh," he says dumbly, crossing his arms over his chest. It’s a little chilly, and when he looks up, he sees dark storm clouds on the horizon.

Max isn’t used to all these little nonverbal friend cues. He feels like he’s taking two courses: one in the chemistry of substances and their properties, and one in the chemistry of human relationships.

"What do you think of Omar?" she asks, smiling at him and neatly ashing off the railing into the bushes.

"He’s nice," Max responds simply until Helen stares at him, clearly wanting more than the vaguest description imaginable of a human being. "Um..he’s…really smart, and handsome," Max adds.

Helen smiles. “He’s cute, right? I think he likes me, but I wanted to know what you think.”

"Why?" Max asks curiously.

"Duh, because we’re friends," she says, smiling.

"We are?" Max asks, his lips quirking up.

"Oh my God. You dork. Of course we are!" she laughs, butting out the cigarette and tossing it into a coffee can on the porch. 

They’re quiet for a bit as they stand there, gazing up at the tops of the trees as they tremble in the wind. It’s going to storm badly later tonight, and Max makes a mental note to call Ravi and tell him to leave the lab early so he doesn’t get caught in a downpour. 

"So, have you and Ravi…?" Helen asks, trailing off, but the suggestive grin on her lips fills in the blanks.

Max flushes. “Uh, no. Not yet. We just moved in together, and we’ve been busy, so…”

"Aw, you guys are  _so cute,_ " she says, grinning. "C’mon," Helen chirps, grabbing his hand, and pulling him back inside.

***

In this case, it turns out to be a good thing Max obsessively worried over the weather and warned Ravi to come home early because they’re under a severe weather watch by the time the alpha walks up the stairs and joins them in the living room. 

Max turns on the small television in the corner of the room to the weather channel, which warns of severe weather that could result in hail, high winds, and power outages.

The prediction proves correct. Storm winds and rain tear through town, hammering against the windows, and causing the old house to groan. Max should be afraid—he’s in a strange town, in a strange part of the country, hundreds of miles away from his parents and siblings, but he isn’t scared. Even when they lose power, and Ravi walks around the apartment, lighting candles, he’s calm.

Actually, it’s kind of  _fun_. Max feels a little foolish for feeling like a giddy kid staying the night at a friend’s house until Helen grabs a blanket, cuddles close to Omar, and declares excitedly, “You guys, this is like a sleepover!”

Omar chuckles and flicks on one of the flashlights. “We should tell ghost stories.”

Ravi fetches another blanket and sits on the floor next to Max. He wraps the fabric around them both, and Max cuddles close to him, resting his head on Ravi’s shoulder.

"Oh my God! Yes!" Helen cries, smiling brightly. "Who knows a good one?"

Apparently, Ravi knows  _lots_ of ghost stories. He says his Uncle Yusuf is a bit of a connoisseur of scary tales, and Helen ends up burying her face in the chest of Omar, who doesn’t look distressed by the situation. “Stop! Stop!” she cries, and the three of them nearly laugh themselves sick.

Eventually, the storm dies down, but by then it’s night, and Ravi sends off Omar and Helen with one of their flashlights. “Call me when you get home,” Max says, and then immediately realizes he hasn’t felt protective over someone like this since he and Rose were attached at the hip.

"I will," Helen says and kisses him on the cheek. "Thanks for having us over. This was so fun! Let’s do it again soon, okay?" she says, smiling in that way that makes her whole face glow. 

"Thanks, man," Omar adds. "See you later."

Max smiles when he watches them walk off, Omar’s arm slung around Helen’s shoulders casually, but securely, his other hand guiding the light along the path.

***

The power is still out by the time they go to bed, but Ravi blows out the candles before they climb into bed. Max’s cellphone still has battery life, and the towers must be functional because he’s able to speak briefly with Helen, who is back in her dorm, safe and sound.

Once he turns off his phone, and slips under the covers, Ravi pulls him close and kisses his throat. Max swallows thickly, and in the distance there’s the rumble of thunder. The weather channel said there may be a second wave of storms later at night, and it appears to be rolling in over the Charles River now.

"You’re so lovely," Ravi purrs in a way that makes Max shiver.

They haven’t really been intimate beyond kissing since they started living together, and Max can tell this moment is different — more serious — than the rest. Max slides his hands across Ravi’s broad chest slowly, and once his eyes are adjusted to the dark, he can make out the features on his face. 

They don’t speak, but Max leans up and seals their lips together, and the alpha cups his face, his fingertips stroking alone Max’s cheekbones worshipfully.

Ravi is a  _great_ kisser, and even though Max doesn’t have anyone else to compare him to, he knows the way his body reacts during their kisses means the alpha is doing it right. His whole body warms and hums pleasantly, and even though he’s on suppressants, the medication doesn’t stop his anatomy from responding to the presence of an alpha.

Suppressors simply prevent pregnancy and Max’s scent from heavily secreting, but they don’t stop him from reacting to Ravi in other ways—say, when the alpha presses his body against Max, and he moans softly.

Ravi is touching him differently—more resolutely, not in the careful, meandering way they usually neck. Max feels hot, and he’s squirming beneath Ravi, and it suddenly occurs to him that they’re going to have sex.

Rather than terrified, he feels excited by the prospect. He’s been thinking of this for so long, and it’s finally,  _finally_ going to happen.

"Ravi," he says softly, his heart beating rapidly in his chest.

"We don’t…we can stop," the alpha offers, but he can’t seem to stop kissing Max’s lips, which makes the omega smile.

"No, I don’t want to stop," he whispers, and he sincerely means it.

He lives with Ravi now—Ravi is his mate, Max loves him, and he wants them to be properly mated.

Ravi leans back to slowly unbutton his pajama shirt, and when Max moves to help him, he realizes his fingers are quivering. Okay, so maybe he’s a  _little_ nervous. “It’s okay,” Ravi whispers soothingly, kissing his bare chest, which makes Max gasp. “I’m going to take care of you, priya,” Ravi says, and he can only nod in response. 

He believes him, totally.

When Ravi pulls off his pajama bottoms and underwear, Max realizes he’s _soaked_ between his legs. This has only happened a couple times when he had his first heats, and he’d drenched the sheets through to the mattress. It’s one thing for that to happen in the privacy of his old bedroom, but here, in front of Ravi, he feels humiliated. “Shit,” he swears softly, throwing his arm over his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he moans, thankful for the darkness because it partly hides the state he’s in, and Ravi can’t see the furious blush of his cheeks.

This is ridiculous. They haven’t even  _done_ anything yet, and he’s dripping wet.

"You’re beautiful," Ravi says so softly and sincerely that Max instantly know it’s not just some line he’s feeding Max to make him feel comfortable. His arm slips off his forehead to rest on the pillow, and now that his eyes have adjusted to the darkness, he can see the alpha clearly, and Ravi is gazing at him with total adoration.

The alpha quickly disrobes, and when Ravi shifts closer to him, Max can feel his hard length press again his thigh. He’s suddenly distracted, and flushed with pride, that he’s the cause of Ravi’s excitement. He’s in a similar state himself, but that’s nothing new. Max gets hard whenever Ravi simply kisses him.

The alpha pushes back his thighs, and Max shifts so he can pull his legs to his chest and leave himself exposed. It feels incredibly intimate to be displayed before Ravi, offering up his soaked entrance like this, but he also feels flushed with excitement. Ravi leans forward and kisses him deeply, which is lovely and familiar, and puts Max at ease until he feels the tip of his cock pressing against him.

He pulls back with a soft gasp, and Ravi immediately stops. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, and Max shakes his head quickly.

"No, no. Keep going," he encourages softly, gripping Ravi’s biceps and then his shoulders when the alpha presses forward and just managed to push the head past his tight ring of muscles. Somehow, Max’s body seems to know what’s happening because another wave of moisture rushes out of him and coats both their thighs. "Fuck, sorry," he whimpers again, his legs trembling.

"God, you smell so good," Ravi gasps, pushing the head in a little and then drawing back, working Max open with care. "How do you smell so bloody good on suppressants?"

It’s a valid question, and Max doesn’t know how it’s possible either. All he can think is that he’s responding to Ravi’s scent, and suppressants be damned, he’s going into a mini-heat. His whole body is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, and his fringe sticks to his forehead. He wants to roll onto his stomach and stick his rear in the air, but he’s also too nervous to move. Ravi already feels huge inside him, and he knows he has aways to go still.

"Go on," he encourages quietly, and immediately pinches his eyes closed when the alpha obeys him and pushes his hips forward. "Stop," he gasps almost immediately. "Fuck,  _stop,_ " Max cries, his abdominals tensing when he sits up part way and grabs at Ravi’s shoulders. The alpha is probably only in half way, but Max feels like he’s being torn in two, even though he’s so wet, and he knows his body is ready for this. It’s just…new. Max has never been with anyone else, and he’s never experimented with toys.

"You’re all right. You’re okay," Ravi soothes calmly, reaching forward to push Max’s fringe off his brow and comfortingly stroke back his hair. "You can take it, priya," he says, and Max nods in response. He  _can_. He knows he can because Ravi says he can. Ravi said he could leave home and come to MIT, and he did, and so he can do this too.

"Keep going," he gasps, eyes shutting and lips falling apart when Ravi immediately complies and quickly thrusts in the rest of the way, and before Max can second guess himself anymore, suddenly the alpha is filling him entirely, his hips flush with Max’s rear. 

He cries out loudly, head crashing back against the pillows, and back arching from the bed. “Ravi,” he moans helplessly after a few moments, his fingers probably bruising the alpha’s flesh as Max grips his arms, but he doesn’t complain. 

"You’re doing so well, my love," he whispers and kisses his lips before setting a gentle rhythm, slowly oscillating his hips between Max’s spread thighs. In the blink of an eye, the sensation goes from strange and intrusive to electric and incredible. Ravi is touching something deep inside his body that sets off pulsating waves that course through his limbs and make his legs tremble. 

The longer Ravi fucks him, the wetter he seems to get, and after a few more minutes, Max is no longer self-conscious of his biological state. If anything, Ravi seems to love it and revel in his arousal. “Feels good?” Ravi whispers against his lips, which really isn’t necessary because Max is moaning every time the alpha thrusts into him, and he’s clearly enjoying himself.

"Yeah," Max moans, fingers pushing Ravi’s curls from his face so he can see him clearly. "Harder," he instructs, simply because everything else has felt so good, and he wants to explore more with his mate. 

"Oh, yes?" Ravi asks teasingly, and shifts so he’s kneeling on the bed, and wraps his arms around Max, pulling him up. 

The omega is partially straddling his lap when Ravi picks up the pace, bouncing Max easily, like he weighs nothing. The storm is closer now, and Max is dimly aware of the thunder, and the branches scraping their bedroom window. Max scrambles for purchase and wraps his arms around Ravi’s neck, and they kiss breathlessly while the alpha’s hips noisily collide with his rear.

Ravi presses his palm to Max’s length and rubs the heel of his hand along the underside of his cock, which causes Max to gasp against his mouth. “Ravi…” he warns, but he can’t articulate beyond that point. Fortunately, his mate seems to innately understand. Max has wanted Ravi since he first laid eyes on him, and he’d fantasized about this moment thousands of times before, so he isn’t going to last much longer.

"Come here," Ravi says and pulls them both over so he’s on his back, and Max is on top. He’s a bit lost at what he should do until the alpha grips his waist and drags him up, and then pulls him down slowly. Catching on quickly, Max gets his feet under him, and proceeds to bounce, and when he does, immediately understands the appeal of this position. From this angle, he’s in control, and he can work Ravi in as deep, or as shallowly, as he wants.

Right now, he wants Ravi deep and hard, and when his mate reaches up to jerk him off, he comes instantly until he sees bright flashes when he closes his eyes. “Oh God,” he gasps helplessly. He feels euphoric, but the deep pulsating feeling is still there inside his pelvis. Max collapses forward and presses his cheek to Ravi’s chest where he can feel and hear the alpha’s heart pounding. 

Ravi grips his waist and gently pushes his hips up, which is when Max feels it—the alpha’s cock growing inside him. Naturally, he’d read all about knotting, and his parents had given him the general gist of what he could expect, but nothing could really prepare him for this moment. Arthur had warned it could hurt, but he never described how it would feel like Ravi is going to split him in half.

"Fuck," he croaks, and the alpha gently runs his fingertips down Max’s spine, kneading his lower back gently, and making a soft shushing sound. "Ravi," Max murmurs, brow furrowed, and he’s seized by the ridiculous desire to pull back quickly, even though he could seriously hurt himself.

He remembers to bear down on it, but that doesn’t seem to slow the growth of the knot, and Max knows this is normal, and nothing bad is going to happen, and still he panics. “Ravi…can’t,” he murmurs, reaching back to feel where he’s stretched so wide around the alpha’s girth. 

Ravi gasps softly when he touches the point of contact. “Almost there, priya,” he soothes. “You’re doing so beautifully.”

Max nods a little and furrows his brow, focusing on squeezing his inner muscles. He can do this. After everything else, he can do this last part.

When the alpha reaches peak growth and starts to come, the uncomfortable pulse finally stops, and is replaced with multiple waves of pleasure that leave Max alternating between tensing and trembling atop his mate. He’s moaning softly, his voice partially drowned out by the sounds of the storm outside. It feels so, so good, which is something else all the pamphlets and sex ed classes hadn’t braced him for. No one ever told him sex could feel this incredible.

Ravi slowly strokes his back afterwards, and he can feel the alpha softly kissing the top of his head and his temple, and when he picks up his head, they kiss lazily for a long time. “Good?” Ravi asks eventually.

"Yeah," Max says, smiling brightly.

The storm has passed by the time Ravi is soft enough that Max can slip off him. The have to strip the sheets from the bed, and then throw down a nearby quilt that they curl up on beneath the blankets. Ravi holds him possessively, which Max likes because he feels oddly vulnerable suddenly. 

"I was okay?" he asks, his fingertips trailing across the alpha’s bare chest.

Ravi tilts his chin up. “You were wonderful, love,” he purrs, and Max smiles happily. 

"Can we go again soon?"

The alpha chuckles. “Sure. Just…give me a bit.”

Max grins and presses his cheek over Ravi’s heart, listening to the rhythm, and counting along to the beats until they can explore together again.


	16. Arthur and Eames walk in on Max and Ravi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames walk in on Max and Ravi

Max may go a bit overboard with things after their first time.

It’s just, he can’t help it. Spending a lifetime sharing a room with his brother, and essentially going delusional during his first few heats, means he wasn’t afforded an opportunity to properly explore his sexuality. 

Max has never had  _privacy_ and a wonderful, lovely, sexy partner—Ravi, he can’t stop thinking about  _Ravi_ —as he paces in the kitchen, glancing up at the wall clock continuously even though the minute hand appears to be stuck in place.

It’s five o’clock on the dot, and Ravi—without fail—gets home at a quarter past every day. They have a very specific schedule because Max gets nervous when unscripted moments rear their ugly heads. Ravi is  _always_ home by 5:15 so Max can cook and they eat by six, except, Max hasn’t pulled out the pots and pans to begin that task because he can’t really remember how that’s done.

He feels really hot, and he can’t stop anxiously pacing. It feels like he’s going into heat, which is impossible because he has been dutifully taking his suppressants. Maybe he needs a stronger dosage. Arthur had warned him about that possibility. His dad said he won’t get pregnant, but he may still experience some symptoms of his heat if the dosage is too low.

When Max hears himself make a soft whimpering noise, he decides, yes, the dosage is  _definitely_ not up to par.

He stands by the kitchen counter and grips its edge when even pacing become too much. The air in the apartment is thin and Max feels like he’s wading through molasses any time he moves. He needs Ravi, but his mate won’t be home for  _fifteen_ minutes—a time frame he’s committed so stubbornly to memory that he can’t make sense of suddenly hearing a car engine purring in the driveway, or the front door slamming, nor does it make sense to his confused brain when he hears footsteps charging up the stairs, and then Ravi’s voice saying, “Max…Max, love, look at me.”

"You’re early," is the first thing he says when Max realizes he’s not hallucinating, and Ravi really is standing beside him.

Ravi hums affirmatively. “And you’re in heat,” he whispers, smoothing his wonderful, cool palm along Max’s sweaty brow. “You’re on suppressants, aren’t you?”

Max nods and winces when he feels his jaw beginning to lock. It can’t be a full heat—not when he’s talking to Ravi like this, but it’s still inconvenient. “Must need a higher dosage,” he murmurs through his clenched teeth, and Ravi shushes him from saying any more.

"I thought you might have been going into heat last night," Ravi says, slipping out of his lab coat and hanging it on the back of a nearby chair, "But then I got this…feeling at work, and…I’m sorry, Max. I shouldn’t have gone in today," and he sounds so guilty that Max shakes his head firmly, hoping that conveys his message:  _this isn’t your fault. We’re learning together._

Thankfully, Max doesn’t have classes scheduled today, so apart from his muscles slowly atrophying in the kitchen, there’s really no harm done. “It’s okay,” Ravi soothes gently, and Max knows he’s whimpering again. “I’m here,” his mate rumbles from behind—somewhere. Max can’t see him, but suddenly Ravi’s arms are around his waist and the alpha’s face buries against his neck.

He’s dimly aware that he can feel the heat from Ravi’s bare chest radiating through the clothing on his back, and it takes him a moment to comprehend the alpha has partially disrobed. Without the burden of layers, Max can finally _smell_ Ravi, and he breathes in greedily. His mate’s scent has a cathartic effect, and Max can finally move again. He spins in Ravi’s arms, and quickly latches onto him—arms circling the alpha’s shoulders, lips crushed against his mouth, as he kisses, and whimpers, and softly bites.

Ravi goes from laughing in surprise, to kissing him hungrily, and periodically hushing him when Max keens desperately.

His mate’s hands dip down to grip his rear, and Max moans throatily. He’s wet already—soaked through his underwear and pants, but he isn’t embarrassed this time. Now, he equates the wetness with Ravi, and Ravi being inside him, and that’s good. That’s  _so_ good. It means everything is as it should be.

He presses his thigh between the alpha’s long legs and grinds against Ravi’s erection, which is prominent and straining against the front of his slacks. Their lips make a loud smacking sound when Ravi pulls back to groan. Max smiles up at him, and the alpha gently touches the side of his face, thumb pad dipping into the crevice of a dimple, before he grabs Max and pushes him face first against the kitchen table.

His hands fly out to grip the edge of the table when Ravi unbuckles his pants and pulls them, along with his drenched underwear, down to ankles. His erection is pressed painfully into the hard lacquered surface of the table, but Max doesn’t care. Something about being bent over with his ass sticking out in offering to Ravi feels right, and he arches his back a bit, which his mate seems to enjoy because he moans at the sight.

Ravi pushes up the hem of Max’s sweater so the fabric bunches around his chest and provides a bit of pillowing between him and the table top. Then the alpha smoothes his hands down Max’s spine, alternating between stroking comfortingly and pressing until the omega is positioned exactly as he desires.

Max spreads his legs in anticipation and whimpers when Ravi grips his hips. “Ravi,” he rasps, the desperate croak unrecognizable to his own ears. The deep, jarring pulse is back, but this time he knows Ravi possesses a cure for the ailment. “Please,” he moans, and it’s the last thing he says before the alpha thrusts inside him, and this time Max takes all of him obediently in one stroke. 

He cries out, and the table slides a couple of inches across the floor as Ravi thrusts his hips forward, plunging into the omega’s wetness with abandon. Max rocks up onto his bare toes for leverage, and tilts his head back, mouth agape as he moans loudly. It feels  _so_ good—better than it did last night, somehow. Ravi is long and thick inside him, and even though he’s extremely wet, the friction of his cock is divine. 

Suddenly, Ravi grabs the back of his neck and holds him down—cheek pressed to the table—and that’s even  _better_. His mate somehow knows that’s exactly what he wants, and Max pinches his eyes closed, and lets the alpha rut him. He’s helpless—pinned in every imaginable way—and yet he feels euphoric and safe. Ravi jars his entire frame with every powerful thrust, and the legs of the table rattle ominously beneath them. The whole structure might collapse. Strangely, Max hopes it does, and then he wants Ravi to fuck him on the pile of debris. He wants to tear down the walls with the strength of their bond.

Ravi growls and grunts with every stroke, and Max answers on the other end, moaning and keening. Romance and tender kisses are wonderful, and they were suitable for last night, but this is different—it’s raw and rough, and Max finds he loves this too. His alpha is strong and virile, and Max trembles beneath him throughout the show of force. Ravi is going to take care of him, and make him feel so good— _is_ making him feel so good.

The thought of what comes next pops into his head so unexpectedly that Max gasps, and he must tense up because Ravi swears loudly behind him. “Come in me,” Max gasps, the worlds warbling and faint because Ravi is literally knocking the air from his lungs every thrust. Max wants to feel the knot inside him, bulbous and perfect. 

Ravi leans down to nip at the back of his neck, then seizes his hips, and sets a brutal pace that nearly makes him bite his tongue. Max is dimly aware they’re causing a commotion—that now the table is pinned against the wall and pounding against it, and he’s practically screaming as Ravi claims him—but he doesn’t care. Max, who generally speaking prefers to remain quiet and out of the way, now delights in their debaucherous cacophony. 

He comes without touching his dick, messing the table surface and his stomach, moments before Ravi thrusts deeply and drapes against his back. Max trembles beneath the weight of the alpha’s body and spreads his thighs open a little further when he feels the knot growing. Like before, Max tries to keep still and observe in breathless wonder as the knot grows…and grows…until he whimpers fearfully even though he knows from experience he can handle this.

Ravi kisses the side of his face and reaches up to stroke back his wet locks. “It’s okay,” he encourages gently, nuzzling Max’s cheek with his nose and mouth. “Almost there,” Ravi adds, his calm tone belying the frantic beat of his heart, which Max feels at his back.

When he’s stretched to the very limits, Ravi comes deep inside him, and Max can feel every twitch and pulse of his mate’s cock, and the uncomfortable throbbing sensation deep inside his pelvis finally subsides. Max moans softly, exhaling, and his muscles feel like they liquify. His vision gradually returns, and his jaw relaxes so he can wiggle it back and forth and open his mouth again.

It’s awkward when they’re locked together, and Ravi picks up Max off the table (after the omega kicks off his pants entirely,) and Ravi gradually walks them over to the couch. But then he pulls Max down with him, and the omega reclines back against his mate’s chest, and that position is remarkably comfortable. Ravi kisses the side of his neck, and Max moans softly—happily. He turns and brushes his lips against Ravi’s mouth, and they kiss languidly until the knot softens.

They rest for a bit, until Ravi is ready again, and then he lays between the omega’s legs and they fuck again right there on the couch. His mind is a little clearer this time, at least lucid enough where he can shove his hips back and meet Ravi’s pace. 

However, his brain isn’t functional enough to remember that today is when Arthur and Eames are coming to visit and see his new apartment. Nor does he remember saying the front door will be open, and they can come right up, which is what happens.

He doesn’t remember planning any of this until there are the sounds of footfalls on the steps, and then the distressed cries of his parents.

***

Arthur is first up the steps, and he makes a rather undignified squeaking noise when he sees Ravi and Max nude on the couch.

Eames bails immediately.

He’s simply  _gone_ when Arthur wheels around to gape in commiseration at his mate. Arthur shields his eyes and then turns away, while Ravi and Max scramble to grab quilts off the back of the couch and cover themselves.

"Why are you here?" Max shouts accusingly.

"You invited us!" Arthur answers, equally upset.

Conspicuous silence, then Max’s quiet reply, “Shit. Yeah, I forgot.  _Fuck_ , I’m sorry.”

Arthur continues to shield his eyes, but he can hear Max and Ravi moving about, probably looking for their clothing. “It’s, um..it’s fine. I’m…going to find your dad,” he replies, and hurries from the room, down the stairs, and out the front door.

He finds Eames in the car, behind the wheel with the window cracked, smoking a cigarette.

Arthur is quiet for a moment after he climbs in beside him and closes the door. Then, he softly asks, “Since when do you smoke?”

Eames stares straight ahead and takes a drag, shrugging. “I only do it occasionally,” he says, exhaling the smoke in a neat stream, to the side, away from Arthur and through the open window. “When I’m stressed,” he adds pointedly.

Arthur is silent in reply because he can’t think of what to say next. He doesn’t know what the protocol is after one walks in on one’s youngest enthusiastically mating with an alpha.

Beyond his obvious embarrassment, Arthur secretly feels a little pleased that things are clearly going well between Max and Ravi. But he knows he can’t say anything like that. Eames isn’t an omega. He takes no pleasure in seeing the healthy physical relationship between the alpha and omega. Actually, he’s probably fighting an impulse to walk upstairs and beat Ravi bloody, even though that makes literally zero sense. 

It’s just an alpha thing.

Eames smokes steadily, and Arthur lets him. 

"I guess it’s karma," he says eventually, and when Eames glances at him curiously, he clarifies. "Well, how many times did the kids walk in on  _us_?” Arthur asks, grinning weakly.

Eames is not amused. “That’s different,” he grumbles, rubbing at an imaginary spot on the wheel, and then ashing out the window.

"Is it?" Arthur sighs. "Eames, he’s not a little kid anymore."

"I bloody well know that, Arthur," Eames snaps, sounding vaguely insulted. He angrily flicks the cigarette butt out the window and pulls the little switch on the door, raising the window.

When it seals shut, the noise outside vanishes, and they’re left with nothing but more silence and the faint smell of stale smoke. 

Arthur remains quiet and gazes down at his hands.

A random memory of Eames bathing a two-year-old Max in the tub comes rushing back to him. He’d been taking pictures during the ordeal—some of his favorite photos he has of them together.

Eames was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, which was soaked through because Max had gone mad with power, splashing the water and suds around as he squealed delightedly. Eames looks so happy in the photos with his big, dopey grin, and his hair wet and splayed haphazardly across his crown.

"It’s just…It’s ducky, you know?" Eames asks quietly, and in the question he’s pleading for understanding from Arthur. 

He reaches to the side and grips Eames’ hand, and thankfully, the alpha doesn’t shuck him off. Instead, he lays his other hand atop Arthur’s, rubbing the back of his fingers tenderly. “I know,” he replies, leaning over to kiss Eames’ jaw gently.

The small sign of affection coaxes Eames from his sulking stupor. The alpha sighs and looks over to him. “It was bloody strange. He looks like you,” Eames says, and frowns deeply.

Arthur nods slowly, realization dawning upon him. It wasn’t just a parental sense of duty and protectiveness that overcame Eames. It was also an irrational spike of  _jealousy_. In Eames’ testosterone-addled mind, it had felt like he was walking in on Arthur mating with another alpha. 

"I would never," Arthur says quietly, leaning toward him again to rub his nose and lips against Eames’ jaw, gentling him.

"I know," Eames responds quickly—affectionately. Eames has had to worry about a lot of things in his life, but Arthur’s loyalty was never one of them.

After another spell of silence, Eames’ broad chest heaves when he lets out a great breath. “Fucking hell,” he says, laughing dryly. “Suppose we’ll have to go back up at some point, hm?”

Arthur smiles slowly and squeezes his hand. “Yeah,” he agrees, and then when Eames looks at him, he continues, “This is a good thing. This means they’re working together.”

Eames nods, more rational now, and he glances out of Arthur’s window, back towards the house. “True,” he says. “I better at least get grandkids out of this,” he adds, mumbling. Arthur laughs and Eames smiles when he hears the sound, leaning forward to kiss him, before he grumbles, “Fuuuuck, let’s go. Time to bite the bullet.”

When they slip back into the house, and walk upstairs, Max and Ravi are standing in the main room, fully dressed, looking sheepish as hell. 

"I’m so sorry," Ravi says immediately, barely maintaining eye contact with Eames. He looks like he wants to melt into the floorboards, or die—anything to escape the awfulness of this moment. 

"It’s my fault," Max interjects. "I completely forgot you were coming today. I’ve been…distracted."

Arthur barely stops himself from smirking.  _Distracted_. Right. He remembers how  _distracting_ he found Eames back when he had full-blown heats. Hell, he _still_ finds Eames  _distracting_.

"It’s fine," Eames interrupts, and the matter is singlehandedly settled in that moment. The eldest alpha has spoken, and so they move on quickly. Ravi still walks on eggshells for a while afterwards, but then he seems to actually buy that Eames isn’t secretly plotting to kill him, and he relaxes.

And Eames even seems to calm once he sees the nice set up in the kitchen, and all of Max’s possessions neatly organized throughout the apartment.

Ravi really is taking care of Max, after all.

Max shares the news that he’s getting good grades, and making friends, and Ravi apparently got a raise working at the lab. His life is good— _really_ good, and not even his overprotective father can begrudge him that.

"Come here," Eames orders softly, and hugs Max close. His son finally seems to calm in the embrace. "Proud of you, ducky," he says, and Arthur smiles to himself, pretending to be distracted by some chemistry book Ravi is showing him. He can tell Ravi is eavesdropping too, and they share a knowing glance over the text.

"I miss you," Max replies tenderly, and Arthur’s throat tightens a little. 

Max always clung to Arthur, but he also has a very special, unique relationship with Eames that can never be duplicated—not even with Ravi.

The bond between an alpha father and omega child is strong and permanent. Ravi will always struggle to live up to the standard set by Eames as the preeminent alpha in Max’s life.

Arthur thinks he’s up to the task, though.

He eventually clears his throat to get their attention. “You guys hungry?” Arthur asks.

"Starving," Eames says, patting Max’s back lightly once they’ve separated. "Shall I make us something?"

"No!" Max answers quickly. "Absolutely not. No, you’re not cooking. We’re taking you out," he says, gazing over to Ravi.

"Yes, please. Our treat," Ravi offers, already reaching for his jacket.

The poor alpha will probably spend the rest of the evening fumbling his way back into their good graces, but he’s only bothering to grovel because he’s stupidly in love with their son.

Arthur shares a grin with Eames and he nods. “Sure. Lead the way.”


	17. Jack and Arthur's fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Arthur's fight.

Eames stands in the living room and gazes out the patio door towards the pristine water of the pool, but his attention is actually fixated upon the noise emanating from the boys’ room where Jack and Arthur are screaming. His arm is braced against the doorframe, and his fingers tensely rub against one another—an old tell he got rid of ages ago when he played cards, but Eames isn’t a gambling man anymore, and it’s returned with a vengeance. 

The backyard’s lights illuminate the pool so Eames can see the water ripple slightly in the breeze. He’s exhausted, mostly because they stayed up until 2 AM waiting for Jack to (finally) come home from a party, and also because he stayed up an additional hour for Arthur to verbally maul their eldest. Curfew is set at a strict 10 PM in their household, so this is a blatant violation of their authority, which he agrees is inexcusable.

And this isn’t the first time Jack has blown his curfew. He’s a repeat offender, and things have gotten especially worse this year because Jack can taste freedom on the horizon when he’ll leave for college soon.

So Eames understands his mate’s frustration.

He just wishes Arthur would let him handle Jack.

Now that their first-born is a young man, and has regular heats, it sets Eames’ nerves on edge when things get out of hand between Arthur and their son. The second the fight escalates, Max hurries into Rose’s room, and she wisely shuts the door, but even when Eames tries to intervene multiple times, Arthur insists he leaves the room.

Jack’s defiance is a personal slight to Arthur, who is the best bloody point man in dream share, and can handle any stubborn teammate. He sees Jack’s rejection of his authority as an inexcusable insult, Eames knows, and he refuses to accept the fact that their son is shirking these household rules because Arthur crafted them. And Arthur is an omega.

Jack’s voice surges loudly, and Eames spins on his heels in time to see Arthur storm from the room and into the kitchen. He’s been doing that on and off for the past hour—charging from the boys’ room for a reprieve before ultimately heading back in to resume shouting. Arthur the point man never lost his cool like that, but this is different—every shout from Jack cuts Arthur deeply, and he’s behaving irrationally as a result.

"Darling, let me speak with him," Eames says again, for the eighth time.

Arthur retrieves a glass from the cabinet, turns on the faucet, then turns it off, and sets down the empty glass on the counter. “No,” he says shortly, and then forgets about the glass when he walks into the living room. “He can’t keep doing this,” Arthur adds, cheeks flushed in frustration.

"I agree," Eames says quickly because the last thing in the world they need right now is for Arthur to think  _two_ alphas in the house are poised against him.

His mate sighs exasperatedly and runs his fingers through his hair, which has come loose from the pomade’s grip, and hangs in waves around his face. “I swear, I didn’t have this much trouble with  _you_ when we worked together.”

Eames smirks. “Well, I wasn’t an oversexed adolescent alpha.”

The remark temporarily pulls Arthur from his dour mood. “You were always oversexed, Eames,” he says, smirking.

Encouraged, Eames takes a step towards Arthur. “Ah, true,” he answers, smiling slowly when he catches his mate’s eye. He keeps his posture relaxed even though he’s suddenly filled with hope he might be able to defuse the situation. “Why don’t you tag out, and I give it a try?”

The second Arthur’s brow furrows, Eames knows he’s failed. “He’s my son too, Eames. And he’s being disrespectful. I should be able to talk to my kid  _in my own house_ ,” Arthur spits, emphasizing the last part because it’s been something of a sore spot in a few of their more colorful fights.

Eames always wants to be the one who disciplines Jack because he knows how irrational young alphas can be, but Arthur—lovely, bullheaded Arthur—believes he can make the universe bend to his will, and that includes testosterone-fueled alphas.

He could put down his foot if he really wanted to, and exert his dominance over the family, but Arthur would resent him for it. Eames doesn’t want that. He doesn’t want to feel the frigid, silent hostility Arthur wields so masterfully when alphas try to control him. Eames has always had Arthur’s back, and he wants to be an ally here—not an enemy.

"Whatever you want, love," he says, nodding, hands on his hips. 

His chin drops a bit when he gazes at Arthur, and the omega stares back at him. 

Arthur doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns and disappears down the hallway again. 

The shouting resumes immediately, and Eames sighs, rubbing his face. This is the worst fight yet, and that’s saying something because Arthur and Jack have had  _spectacular_ blowouts—not many, but in the past year, things have escalated to an oftentimes unmanageable frenzy. 

Eames feels paralyzed. If he walks into the room, Arthur will hate him. If he stays in the living room, he’s negligent. Eames decides to go check on Rose and Max, but just then, there’s a huge crash in Jack’s room.

He races down the hallway and into the boy’s room. Jack is standing at one end of the room, eyes wide, horrified, and Arthur is splayed across the floor atop Jack’s overturned desk. The lamp lays in pieces around him, and the glass from the lightbulb must have cut Arthur because his arm is bleeding.

Something short-circuits in his brain when he sees the blood, and it must show on his face, because when he looks up and locks gazes with Jack, the young alpha looks terrified.

"I didn’t…it was an accident—" he sputters, then stops when Eames points at him.

"Shut up," he snarls. "Stop talking."

He bends down quickly to help Arthur to his feet, and the omega is softly insisting, “I’m fine…Eames, I’m fine,” but he can’t process the words, and then the door across the hallway opens, and Max and Rose are standing terrified in the doorway when he turns around. 

"Back in your room.  _Now_ ,” Eames says, and barely recognizes his own voice. The change in tone apparently registers with the sprogs, as well, because Rose pulls Max back into the room and obediently shuts the door again. “You don’t move,” he instructs Jack, and then takes Arthur by his good arm and steers him from the room.

Thankfully, this time Arthur doesn’t fight him. In fact, he’s deflated at his side as Eames guides him to the master bathroom, flips down the toilet seat cover, and watches as Arthur sits down. 

He keeps insisting he’s fine, but Arthur is pale, and the fight has drained from him entirely. Eames gently grips his wrist and bends Arthur’s arm so he can see the gash running along the underside of his forearm. It’s messy, but not deep. “Just sit there, love,” Eames says quietly and proceeds to clean and dress the wound. There are a slew of small cuts, so he ends up having to wrap the entire area in gauze.

The whole time, he breathes steadily and fights the urge to sprint into Jack’s room and throttle him. Eames has never struck the children, but this is the strongest impulse he’s felt to physically discipline Jack. 

Arthur must sense his temptation because he remarks quietly: “It’s my fault. He was trying to leave, and I got in his way.”

"That’s no excuse," Eames mutters. When he’s finished wrapping the area, he kisses the back of Arthur’s fingers. "Are you all right?"

Arthur’s jaw tenses and he shakes his head a little. When the omega swallows and bows his head, Eames has the terrible realization that Arthur is trying not to cry. “I feel like he hates me sometimes,” his mate confesses quietly, and Eames chest painfully constricts in response. 

"He doesn’t," Eames insists immediately and bends down to kiss the top of Arthur’s head. "Go wait in the bedroom, darling," he says, and Eames knows the fight has definitely left Arthur when the omega nods, stands, and slips into their room. 

There have been times, in moments of frustration and anger, that Eames has wished for total obedience from Arthur. But he doesn’t want this. He doesn’t want a defeated partner. Eames loves the spark and spirit in Arthur, and he seethes with rage that Jack, his own flesh and blood, has extinguished those qualities.

Eames exits the bedroom, walks down the hallway, and enters Jack’s room. The younger alpha is still standing exactly where they left him, and he looks petrified: pale, eyes wide, hands raised in a position of surrender and pleading, with the palms out. “Dad—” he begins, and Eames immediately cuts him off.

"You think you’re a big man, hm?" he growls, any affectation of the kind, understanding father vanishing instantly. "You try that on me. See what happens."

Jack’s fingers are trembling and he shakes his head. “No! No, dad. Please, listen to me,” he begs, “I didn’t mean to. He grabbed me, and I don’t know…I don’t remember what happened. I blacked out, and then he was on the floor. Fuck, I’m sorry,” Jack says, his voice breaking.

If he was feeling more rational, Eames might have felt a degree of empathy because he too has had those rage-filled moments—when someone threatened Arthur or the sprogs—in which he lost track of time and space, and awoke later with bloody, torn knuckles.

"I don’t care if you’re  _sorry_ ,” Eames mutters, recycling Jack’s word choice and hurling it back at him with contempt. “Arthur gives you everything, and this is how you act?” Eames has to stop speaking, and he braces his hands against his hips when he looks down. He takes a moment to breathe deeply through his nose and listen to the furious pounding of his heart.

He wants to put his fist through the wall. He wants to wring Jack’s neck. But he won’t. He  _won’t_.

"Dad—"

"I hope you like this room, mate, because you’re not leaving it until you’re off to college. You understand? No parties, no seeing the lads…" 

Jack’s eyes nearly bulge from head. “Dad! That’s total bullshit! All the parties are this month. This is the last time I can see my friends!”

"I don’t care," Eames repeats quietly, and Jack must be able to see all the fucks Eames doesn’t give because he grows silent immediately. He stares at his son for several moments, and notes there are tears in Jack’s eyes, but he doesn’t know why they’re there, and who they’re for. For all he knows, they might be forming for all the parties Jack realizes he won’t be able to go to now. “You’re selfish,” he adds, and is secretly pleased when Jack looks wounded at the accusation. 

"I’m sorry," Jack says again quietly, but Eames shakes his head and turns from him.

"Clean this mess up," he answers before closing the door behind him on the way out.

***

Arthur sits on the edge of the bed because Eames told him to wait in their room, and it seems easier to obey the order right now than get into another fight.

He’s tired of fighting.

When a memory washes over him, he hunches over, elbows to knees, and rests his face in his hands.

Jack is three and it’s Halloween, and Arthur may be bias, but he’s fairly convinced they have the cutest kid in the whole world. He’s racing around dressed up in his Superman costume even though they’re not going trick-or-treating for a couple more hours. 

"Up!" he demands when he nearly runs into Eames’ legs.

His mate smiles brightly. “Up? You got it, mate,” and gives an exaggerated groan when he lifts up Jack over his head and turns in circles quickly. 

Jack loves this routine. He squeals loudly, cape flapping in the air. “Daddy! I’m flying!” he declares, and Arthur smiles at him from his spot in the kitchen where he’s decorating ghost cookies with some white frosting. 

"Woah!" he declares, eyes widened in mock awe. "You sure are, Superman."

That becomes an inside joke between the two of them. Jack  _always_ wanted to be Superman for Halloween, and that was his chosen costume ages three-to-nine, when Wolverine overthrew Superman as the hero of choice. 

But even later, when Jack started playing football, Arthur kept up the tradition. It makes sense, after all. He is the fastest, strongest kid at his school, and Jack likes the affectionate nickname, especially coming from Arthur, who demands perfection in all things.

Whenever Jack wins a game, or runs the fastest 100 yard dash, Arthur congratulates him with a hug, smile, and, “Nice job, Superman.” 

Jack isn’t a good student, but he’s Superman to Arthur. 

Arthur always hoped Jack would grow up to be an alpha like Eames: strong, yes, but also kind and sensitive when it matters. He worries that Jack is too undisciplined—that he’ll be one of those alphas who flies into blind rages. Jack could kill someone, and he’ll be labelled a deviant by the court system, incarcerated, then euthanized by the state.

Arthur worries about him all the time.

Eames always tried to tell Jack his strength is not for getting his way whenever he wants, but that lesson isn’t sticking lately, and Arthur doesn’t know what to do anymore.

He touches his arm gingerly and winces, just as Eames walks into the room. 

"I’m tired," he says before Eames can ask him any personal questions about how he’s feeling. 

The alpha looks like he wants to press the matter, but he doesn’t, which is why Arthur loves him. It’s only seven o’clock, but Eames flips off the lights, strips down to his boxers, and climbs into bed behind Arthur so he can wrap his arm around the omega’s waist and hold him. “I love you,” he whispers and kisses the spot beneath Arthur’s ear tenderly.

Arthur closes his eyes, but that doesn’t stop the tears from spilling across his cheeks and wetting the pillow. He wants to interrogate Eames about the exact circumstances that led to him being a perfect mate and husband. Maybe if they recreate every step of the way, victories and traumas, Jack will be good and decent like Eames.

But that’s impossible.

"I love you," he replies quietly.

***

Arthur doesn’t wake up until early afternoon the next day. 

When he wanders into the kitchen, Rose and Max are eating at the kitchen table, and Eames is manning the stove and coffee maker.

"Coffee will be ready in two minutes," he says to Arthur, who leans over to kiss him on the cheek in thanks.

Then he kisses Rose and Max on the tops of their heads, even though they’re bowed in concentration as they inhale cereal. Arthur squints at Eames. “Where’s Jack?” he asks, voice still a little hoarse from sleep.

The room goes quiet. 

Max glances nervously at Rose, who keeps her attention fixated on her bowl. Eames sets down the spatula he’d been using to cook something no doubt cheesy and delicious on the stovetop, and sighs. “Must have snuck out. His car is gone.”

Arthur isn’t surprised in the slightest. Every day, Jack drifts farther away from them. Arthur wonders if he should stop fighting it and let him go. Clearly, that’s what Jack wants.

He nods a little in response, and Eames sets a plate before him. It’s a beautiful omelette.

Arthur doesn’t want to eat it.

Eames kisses his temple and starts tidying up.

***

Arthur is seated on the edge of the bed when he hears Jack’s car pull into the driveway. He doesn’t even bother to go confront the alpha when Jack walks back into the house because he doesn’t see the point in instigating another argument. If Jack wants to cut curfew, fine. He’s only living with them a couple more months, and then he’ll leave. Probably forever. 

He’s angry when the thought causes tears to swell in his eyes again. Arthur doesn’t want to preemptively mourn Jack leaving them—especially after their fight. Arthur knows he’s nothing but a nuisance to Jack at this point—a pesky obstacle to be knocked aside during the pursuit of what he really wants.

To cry, despite possessing that knowledge, is too pathetic for Arthur to allow.

He doesn’t register Jack’s presence until the alpha is standing a foot away from him. Arthur looks up sharply and his back instinctively goes rigid. The last time Jack was this close to him, Arthur was flying across the room and nearly broke a desk in half with his spine.

Jack frowns at his response. “Sorry…thought you heard me come in.”

"I didn’t," Arthur responds icily.

The alpha nods, and then rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Oh…sorry.”

"What do you want?" he asks quickly, gaze dropping when he notices the alpha is clutching a bag.

"I…" Jack begins, then pauses. He holds up the bag. "I know I wasn’t supposed to go out, but…I got something," he says, and then moves to sit beside Arthur on the bed, which again causes Arthur to tense. Jack may feel that things are back to normal, but he certainly doesn’t.

Arthur has killed men for trying to do what Jack did.

The alpha opens the bag and quickly pulls out two small boxes. He hands one to Arthur and looks expectantly at him. Arthur sighs, fatigued and slightly annoyed, and pulls off the cover.

Inside is a small, silver necklace— the cheap kind that run for $10 at mall stands. 

Arthur’s breath catches in his throat, and he covers his mouth before he can do something embarrassing like sob. He reaches into the box and picks up the amulet, a little “S,” in the shape of Superman’s shield.

"Oh…" he says softly, and the tears are back, but he’s not angry this time.

"And, see? I have one too," Jack says, pulling the top off the other box to reveal an identical necklace.

Arthur nods, and says: “They’re hideous,” because he’s still Arthur, after all, and it’s true. The necklaces are so ugly.

Jack’s inherited Eames’ sartorial tastes, and vastly prefers walking around in sweats and t-shirts than sporting any of the expensive suits Arthur buys for him. He’s lucky he inherited Eames’ cheekbones too. Otherwise, he’d never pull it off.

Jack grins toothily—crookedly. It’s Eames’ smile. He looks more like Eames every day. “That’s the point. You have to wear something ugly so you remember me.”

Arthur can’t speak. If he speaks, he’ll cry, and if he cries, he’s never going to stop. His baby—his first born—is leaving, and a piece of his heart will go with him and be gone forever. 

Jack plucks the necklace from Arthur’s grasp and helps him fasten it around his neck. He touches the cool metal of the charm when it settles against his clavicle. “You sure you want me to have it?” he asks weakly, smile faint. He’s desperately trying to deflect because the enormity of this moment leaves him breathless.

"I’m sure," Jack insists firmly, but quietly. Arthur can’t remember the last time Jack looked this sad. Normally, his son is vivacious and carefree, but now, his shoulders are slumped and there is a sadness in his eyes that Arthur has never seen before. "You never give up on me," he adds, locking gazes with Arthur in an insistent, earnest way. "No matter how many times I fuck up, you believe in me."

That’s true. Arthur lost track of how many teachers he told to not dismiss Jack just because he had trouble in his studies, and how many nights he stayed awake to help his son review for tests and quizzes. 

"I just want you around right now," Arthur admits softly. "I know you want to see your friends, but we only have you for a couple more months."

"I know," Jack answers, smiling slightly, but the expression evaporates from his lips. "I’m sorry…for what I did," he says, glancing down at Arthur’s bandaged arm.

Arthur is quiet in response because he doesn’t know what to say. The nurturing part of his brain wants to tell Jack it’s okay, even though it’s not, but he doesn’t want to lie to his son. He doesn’t know how to convey his disappointment, and also his frustration because he knows Jack is so much better than those idiot alphas out there who function reactively and unthinkingly. Jack is not those primitive thugs.

"Your father’s never laid a hand on me," he says eventually, and apparently Jack understands his meaning because he silently winces and drops his gaze.

"I know," the alpha whispers, but then he grows silent.

Arthur doesn’t push him. Sometimes, it just takes Jack a second to articulate his feelings, and if no one interrupts, he can eventually get his thoughts together.

"Sometimes…it’s hard because I get so mad, and I can’t think," Jack finally says, staring at his hands where he’s still clutching the small box. "But…I want to be good. I see you, and dad, and I want to be like that."

Jack doesn’t talk about his feelings. It’s an alpha thing. So the importance of this moment is not overlooked by Arthur. He reaches out and grips Jack’s hand, squeezing it gently. “You  _are_  good, baby,” he manages to whisper before Jack crushes his face to Arthur’s chest, and his arms fly up to wrap around the alpha.

He shushes him softly and rubs his back, which quakes as Jack sobs into his shirt. 

Arthur can count on one hand the numbers of times he’s seen Jack cry during his years as a young man. 

"I’m sorry…I’m so sorry," Jack moans, and the sound makes Arthur’s chest feel tight and heavy. 

Because he doesn’t know what else to say, Arthur responds with the only thing he’s really sure of: “I love you,” he whispers against Jack’s blond hair. “I love you no matter what.”

***

Arthur wears the necklace, under the buttoned collar of his shirt, of course. It’s not that he’s embarrassed by it (though, honestly, it is  _god awful_ ugly,) but he likes keeping it tucked away.

He likes having that private connection with his son.

Eames sees it, of course, and he knows the meaning behind it, but his mate never addresses the presence of the charm directly.

Which is why Arthur loves him.

Eames let him keeps that one thing for himself.


	18. Eames is very protective of Max AKA Eames goes berserker

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames is very protective of Max AKA Eames goes berserker

Somewhere along the way, during Arthur’s parenting book binge, he decides part of Max’s social anxiety stems from him and Eames not paying enough attention to their youngest. Jack is eight-years-old, already a handful, and  _clearly_ an alpha, so Eames has a blast playing with him, and Rose is an independent child, who makes friends with ease.

But then there’s Max. Shy, vulnerable Max. He’s only six, but he’s too timid for Eames to roughhouse with, and too intimidated to go out and make friends on his own, so Arthur says they’ll need to make a better effort to spend solo time with Max to coax him from his shell. 

That’s easy for Arthur to say, of course. The boy is already practically gripping his leg at all times, whereas Max harbors an instinctive fear of alphas, including Eames.

He overcomes that fear when Eames plays with him, but there’s always a degree of initial hesitancy when Max realizes he’s alone with Eames—an alpha, who could hurt him. Arthur comforts Eames, and tells him it’s not personal, and that he was scared of alphas at that age too.

Still, it stings a bit to see the boy shrink whenever Max first lays eyes on him.

Eames remembers when Max was a baby, and unaware of things like  _alphas_ and _scents_ , and they used to have a laugh during bath time, when the boy splashed around and squealed in delight. Then, Max got older, and comprehended the world is full of potential threats for omegas. 

Sometimes, he wishes the boy wasn’t so bloody perceptive.

Determined to win over his son once more, Eames announces to Arthur that he wants to take Max to a local fair during the weekend—just the two of them, for an evening of father-son bonding time. 

Arthur approves immediately. And because they’re alone, he does it sweetly, with his arms wrapped around Eames’ neck, kissing his lips, and whispering that he’s such a good father.

Which is just another perk of the whole idea, in Eames’ book.

***

Max holds his hand tightly as they walk along the grounds slowly. Eames pauses occasionally, and allows him to look at various stands lined with colourful toys, specifically designed to catch the eye of an impressionable young boy.

"You just tell me which one you want, and I’ll win it for you," Eames says, winking at Max when the boy smiles widely.

He points, thank God, to a cluster of stuffed bears at the stand with the milk bottles stacked into a pyramid, and not the  _Family Guy_ dolls at the basketball game. Eames is absolute rubbish at basketball, but he can hit a fixed target with a baseball. It’s a bit like cricket, after all.

Eames nearly takes off the back wall of the stand with the force of his throw, but he manages to knock down all the bottles.

“ _Jesus_ , dude,” the carnie snarls at him, thrusting the bear into his hands. “Here. _Fuck_ ,” he mutters beneath his breath as he goes to double-check Eames didn’t fracture the wood paneling.

His negative reaction doesn’t register with Eames because he’s too busy smiling down at Max when the boy’s whole face lights up and he hugs the bear close to his chest.

"This is fun, yeah?" he asks encouragingly once Max takes his hand again, and they keep walking around the fair.

Max made it very clear he doesn’t want to go on the rides, not even the ones designed for little kids, because they frighten him. And Eames doesn’t want to push. The whole idea of this trip is for them to bond—not to traumatize the poor lad.

"Yeah," Max says softly, but he’s still smiling, and Eames can’t remember when they last spent this much time together without Max at least  _asking_ where Arthur is.

***

"You hungry?" Eames asks after glancing at his watch. It’s around Max’s dinner time, and though the boy has been quiet and not complaining, he also knows that’s just Max’s way. He could be starving, and simply not say anything.

Max nods, and Eames looks around, scouting for relatively healthy food. But then again, they’re at a fair, so his options are limited to hot dogs and nachos, and because he loves his son and isn’t a negligent father, he chooses nachos.

Eames releases Max’s hand and pats his jacket pocket until he finds his wallet and fishes it out. “No spicy things, yeah?” he asks, gazing down at Max. He seems to recall Max having an epic meltdown when he accidentally ate a jalapeno slice once.

Max makes a face, and Eames chuckles in response. “I’ll take it that means no,” and he faces the young man behind the nacho stand. “Two, mate. No jalapenos.”

The man turns around, dumps a heap of chips into two paper vessels, and proceeds to drown them in the most primitive kind of liquid cheese Eames has ever seen in his life.

He’s only distracted for a moment.

Later, Eames will replay every single one of his movements, and yes, it was only a few seconds.

When he looks down again, Max is gone, and the teddybear is abandoned on the ground.

"Max?" he calls instantly, his gaze racing on the horizon, trying to locate the familiar shape of Max’s small frame. 

He immediately goes into tactical mode. 

Max is wearing a blue jacket and jeans. His sneakers are green. Police always tell parents to report the color of sneakers their child was wearing at the time of disappearance because an abductor may change their clothes, but they don’t change the shoes because sizing is too tricky. 

And Eames is certain this is an abduction situation. Max would never, ever wander away from him. That’s not the kind of boy he is. But he is the kind of boy who would go quietly if an adult grabbed him.

There are no green shoes in the crowd.

Eames races from the stand, even as the young man shouts at his back, “Hey! You have to pay, man!” 

He runs straight for the parking lot because there’s no point checking the grounds. An abductor will try to get Max away as quickly as possible, and he won’t want to waste time loitering at the scene of the crime. It’s a huge gamble, but Eames’ heart thunders in his ears, and his adrenaline spikes in a familiar way, as it used to in combat situations. He’s learned to trust his gut. 

Eames has heard stories of predatory alphas who look for vulnerable omegas to abduct and sell on the black-market. Virgin omegas can sell for hundreds of thousands of dollars, so it’s a thriving, albeit illegal and morally repulsive industry.

He reaches the edge of the fairground and looks out at the parking lot, which is when he sees it—just a glimpse—the heel of a green sneaker.

They’re already at the far end of the parking lot, but Eames closes that distance in about ten seconds when he charges across the asphalt. 

What comes next is hazy. He remembers the double-leg takedown, and the man in the baseball cap shouting when he uses his entire weight to crush the man to the ground, and the first punch, and the second. His finger snaps, but he keeps pummelling him until the man’s nose caves in, and there is blood everywhere. 

He remembers Max screaming.

Someone must have called the police because it took four officers to pull him off the man, the kidnapper, he almost killed. 

***

Eames doesn’t fully come back online until he’s at the police station and Arthur walks into the room. “Oh my God,” his mate gasps when he sees him, and that’s the first time Eames realizes he must look wrecked. When he glances downward, he notes his right hand is a bloody mess, and the skin on the knuckles is shredded. “Eames,” Arthur says, sitting beside him and touching his face. Arthur’s hands feel nice: cool and dry, but Eames can’t articulate these things.

He still can’t think clearly.

Finally, he manages to pull himself together enough to ask: “Where’s Max?”

"In the lobby, with some officers. They say you’re free to go. Max told them what happened," Arthur says, smoothing his hair back and off his forehead.

Gentling works both ways between alphas and omegas, and Eames feels himself calming the longer Arthur speaks and touches him. The world is gradually beginning to make sense again. He’s in a police station because he nearly killed Max’s kidnapper. 

 _Max_.

Eames winces. This whole exercise was so Max wouldn’t be afraid of him, and now the poor lad was forced to watch his father nearly kill a man. Max will probably never want to be alone with him ever again. “Job went tits-up,” he jokes weakly, because that’s something they used to say when they were young men working in dream share, and things went badly. 

Arthur smiles and touches the side of his face gently. “You did good,” he insists quietly, and when Eames looks at him, sincerity shines on his face. “You protected Max, Eames.”

***

After Eames convinces Arthur he doesn’t need to go to the hospital for his hand, and he’s recovered from much, much worse, they exit the back room. Max is seated patiently by the main entrance, wearing a policeman’s jacket, and it swims on his small frame. Once he’s given the jacket back, Max takes Arthur’s hand, and they begin the slow walk back to the car. 

Eames is miserably cursing his alpha brain when he recognizes the gentle, but insistent pressure on his balled fist. When he looks down, Max is gazing up at him as he attempts to hold his good hand. He’s surprised, but he complies, and carefully squeezes the boy’s hand.

"You okay, ducky?" he asks quietly.

Max frowns thoughtfully: “I dropped my bear.”

Eames swallows a lump in his throat and stops so he can pick up the boy, and carry, but mostly hug him as he walks. “I’ll get you a new one.”

***

Jack thinks it’s weird Max has so many stuffed teddybears on his side of the room, but Max enjoys collecting them over the years. He’s probably too old to keep them now, but he doesn’t want to give them up, and he doubts his dads will ever make him.

Some might consider the bears a macabre kind of anniversary present, but Max knows better. For him, each bear is a declaration of love from his father, and more than that, a symbol of how Eames will defend him with his life. 

For Eames, every bear is a promise to always protect Max—to forever serve as his loyal sentinel. 


	19. What Arthur and Eames got up to now that the kids are gone AKA smuuuuut

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Arthur and Eames got up to now that the kids are gone AKA smuuuuut

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up: daddy kink in this chapter, bbs (it's not for everyone, so just a general warning)

Arthur isn’t proud of how he carries on after Max leaves. He’s annoyed because he thought he had is emotions under wraps, or at least in control, but that turns out not to be the case. The second Max hugs him goodbye, he falls to pieces. It’s an omega thing. Max is the last of his cubs leaving the house, and his stupid brain is going into panic mode. Thankfully, Eames is there to peel him off the poor kid so Max can go begin his new life.

He’s spends the rest of the day uselessly curled up on the couch, splayed between Eames’ spread legs, crying against the alpha’s broad chest. It’s not a pretty sight, but Eames strokes his back and murmurs soothing things. 

"This is a good thing, pet. You always said he should be more independent and see the world. This is a good thing."

Trust Eames to use his own magnificent logic against him.

He must look a mess: eyes red, puffy, face streaked with tears, but when he looks at Eames, the alpha smiles fondly and touches his cheek. “This is a new chapter for us, darling,” he says, and in Arthur’s heart, he know his mate is right.

***

Their world began with Arthur and Eames, and the world will end the same way, and it’s that thought that carries him through the first few days when he does the little, monotonous things he was never able to do with three kids tearing apart the neat lines of his life. He finally gets their family photo albums organized and color-coded, and then he takes all of his designer suits to the dry cleaner to get them ready for when he and Eames finally go back to work. 

(He’s pleased to find all the suits still fit him, a reality Eames begrudges deeply, and may even mutter, “You still look like you’re sixteen,” beneath his breath.)

He fixes the squeaky garage door, and changes the dead lightbulbs in the house.

Meanwhile, Eames goes back to boxing three days a week, and loses five pounds without even trying. Turns out, not sitting on the couch with the sprogs every day is a natural weight loss remedy in itself. 

He shows off his new physique to Arthur one afternoon when the omega is swimming lazily out back in the pool. Eames marches out onto the patio, strips off his shirt, and even throws in a couple flexes for Arthur, who laughs, and shakes his head. “Don’t lose too much weight,” he says, treading water. 

Arthur prefers Eames with a tummy, as they previously discussed. Eames grins toothily, strips off his pants, and wades into the pool in his boxer shorts. He quirks an eyebrow in response, and then smirks when the alpha bends down, shimmies, and victoriously holds up the boxers above his head.

“ _Eames_ ,” he chastises playfully and reflexively, even though there’s absolutely no reason the man  _shouldn’t_ skinny dip in their own pool. They have high fences, after all.

Shameless as usual, Eames tosses aside the shorts, and they flop against the edge of the pool with a loud, wet smack. “What?” he asks innocently as he swims towards the omega, and Arthur can’t help but watch the movement of Eames’ shoulders and think of a hungry shark hunting down a baby seal.

“ _Eames_ ,” he warns again, but the smile on his lips must give him away, because Eames can tell he doesn’t really mean it.

The alpha pulls him close, and Arthur wraps his legs around Eames’ waist. Even though he’s still wearing his swimsuit, he can feel his mate’s cock when they press together—a hard column leaning against Eames’ stomach. He’s obviously a little distracted by the revelation, and barely notices when Eames eases them through the water towards the shallow end where he can stand comfortably.

Arthur slides his arms around Eames’ neck, and smiles right before their lips meet. They kiss lazily, unhurried, as Eames’ slides his wet hands across the slick span of Arthur’s back. 

When Eames hooks his fingers under Arthur’s trunks and tugs a little, he pulls back, and laughs. “Stop, we can’t,” he says out of habit, because this isn’t the first time Eames has tried to fool around in the pool.

"Why not?" Eames purrs, and when Arthur immediately formulates the slew of reasons he normally fires in retaliation at his oversexed mate, he realizes none of them are valid anymore. 

The sprogs aren’t around to inconveniently charge outside and interrupt their spontaneous lovemaking, and while Arthur feels the familiar tug of sadness when he thinks about the kids being gone, he also contemplates the upside: say, Eames fucking him in their swimming pool.

"Oh yeah," he says softly, smiling sheepishly.

"Oh yeah," Eames echoes, but in a very different tone, when he finally manages to pull the trunks past the swell of Arthur’s rear and grope bare skin.

Arthur grins, and unwraps his leg so he can stand, and works the swimsuit the rest of the way off. He leaves it floating in the pool afterwards, and reattaches to Eames, who cups his rear. They resume kissing slowly, the alpha turning so that Arthur’s back is against the edge of the pool. “This okay?” Eames whispers against his lips when he reaches down to position the head of his cock against Arthur’s hole.

He can’t talk, but he nods a little. Arthur claws at his shoulders in anticipation, and a sharp cry escapes his throat when Eames’ other hand tightens on his hip, and shoves him down onto the head. “Oh,  _fuck_ ,” he whines, his forehead pressed to Eames’ as the alpha laughs breathlessly. 

It feels strange, but good, when his natural wetness meets the water. The pool robs his body of its lubrication, but heightens the friction.

It hurts a little, but in a good way.

"All right?" Eames asks eventually, stroking his thumb across the dimples above Arthur’s ass. 

Arthur nods again, and Eames takes that as his cue to slowly push the rest of the way in. The omega reclines his head against the edge of the pool and moans throatily, while Eames wraps his hand around Arthur’s length and strokes him languidly. The first push of his cock carries with it an injection of pool water, the shock of which causes Arthur to tense up, and his body responds with another wave of moisture.

"Fucking hell," Eames gasps because it must feel different for him too. 

Arthur trembles and pulls himself forward to cling to him again. He whimpers, thighs tightening around Eames waist. The alpha fucks him slowly, each thrust experimental in the beginning, until he’s sure Arthur isn’t going to quake to bits in his arms. The angle is a bit strained, though, so Arthur reclines backwards and grips the edge of the pool, and Eames’ strokes grow steadier and smoother, his hips rippling the water and sending small swells over the side onto the patio.

"Eames," he whimpers, the hard edge of the pool digging into the back of his crown, but he doesn’t want Eames to stop.

He’s never able to hide anything from him, though. Eames knows he’s uncomfortable, so he stops, turns him around, and Arthur grips the edge of the pool right before Eames sinks back inside and starts fucking him with urgency.

He cries out, bowing his head and arching his back, as the alpha grips his waist and his hips wetly clap against Arthur’s rear. Eames has  _just_ found the really good rhythm that leaves Arthur a hot, throbbing mess when the phone rings inside the kitchen.

"Leave it," he gasps, when Arthur looks towards the patio door.

He wants to obey—to bow his head again and feel Eames fill him up—but when the phone rings a second, and then a third time, he straightens his spine. “Eames, stop,” he says softly, shivering a little when his mate pulls out. He  _hates_  how empty he feels whenever they have to end sex preemptively without the punctuation of knotting. “Could be Max,” he murmurs before quickly climbing from the pool, fetching a towel to wrap around his waist, and hurrying inside.

It is indeed Max, checking in with them to say he’s all moved in at MIT.

***

Arthur is keyed up the rest of the day. After getting off the phone with Max, Rose calls, and then there’s another hour-long conversation because he hasn’t spoken with his daughter in a while, and it’s tricky to coordinate catch-up time because of the time difference, and of course Eames wants to speak with her as well, so by the time they’re off the phone, the moment has passed for them to resume pool sex.

As a result, Arthur’s a bit tense as he resumes completing various monotonous tasks, and by the time evening rolls around, he’s ready to jump Eames’ bones again.

***

There are  _certain_ perks to not having the kids around anymore.

Say, for example, when Eames is on the couch, watching a soccer match on TV, and Arthur walks into the living room dressed in a lace teddy.

He really wishes he’d brought a camera to capture the look on Eames’ face when the alpha looks over and sees his mate dressed in a frilly, see-through frock. Eames slowly leans back on the couch so he can take in the sight of him. “Well,” he says slowly, gaze trailing down Arthur’s body. “Aren’t you pretty?”

Arthur’s cheeks flush, from excitement and a little embarrassment. He’s always a little flustered when he makes himself vulnerable like this, but that enhances the moment and sharpens his other senses. Arthur is very present whenever he does something like this for Eames.

Eames moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue. “Is that for me?” he asks in his lowest register.

The tone indicates Eames is assuming a role. Arthur looks down and sees the alpha is already hard inside his jeans, and Eames’ fingers flex on his thighs as though he’d like to reach out and rip off Arthur’s nighty, but he’s restraining himself for the sake of the game.

"Yes, daddy," Arthur replies, his tone sweet, eyes widen and innocent. Eames always said he was a crap actor when they worked together in dream share, but Arthur knows how to play a role when he really wants to. "To say sorry because I was bad before."

He can hear Eames swallow thickly, but to his credit, the alpha’s voice is steady and authoritative when he asks: “When were you bad, baby?”

Arthur smooths his hands down the teddy, and watches Eames’ gaze follow his fingers when he touches the hem of his dress and pushes it up his thighs a little. “Earlier…in the pool. I didn’t make you come,” Arthur murmurs abashedly, offering a little pout to show just how sorry he really is.

There’s a split second where they break character, and Eames looks at him and smirks, as if to say,  _Well played, darling_ , and Arthur eyes shine a little in response, but the expressions quickly vanish from their faces. “Well,” Eames says, nodding in a grave way. “I suppose you’ll have to make it up to me,” he rumbles, and reaches down to unfasten his jeans.

Arthur’s gaze follows the movement of his mate’s fingers when they grip the zipper and slowly tug it down. Eames draws out his cock, which is already hard. He reminds himself to play coy, and not race over to immediately swallow the alpha’s length.

"What do you want me to do?" he asks innocently, playing the part of an inexperienced omega who doesn’t know exactly how to bring off an alpha with his mouth.

Eames strokes himself slowly, and again smirks, but his tone is all gentle understanding and compassion. “Come here and put your lovely lips on it.”

Arthur swings his hips a little so the skirt flares around his legs as he approaches Eames and kneels between the alpha’s spread legs. He tentatively wraps his fingers around the base, leans forward, and pauses a moment to look at Eames when his lips are mere centimeters away from the tip of his cock. Apparently, Eames has spent the day as bad off as Arthur because his dick is angrily swollen and the head is leaking drops of pre-cum. Arthur’s hot breath washes over the moist tip, and Eames’ cock twitches in his hand.

"There’s a good girl," Eames murmurs. "Suck it."

He maintains eye contact with Eames when he leans forward and presses the tip past his lips, tonguing the slit hesitantly, as though unaccustomed to the weight of a dick in his mouth. Eames furls his fingers in Arthur’s hair and tugs a little, and he moans in response, the vibration traveling up the alpha’s length. Eames hisses, but doesn’t break character. “So good for your daddy.”

Arthur moans happily again and gradually descends, lips spread lewdly as he takes Eames into his mouth. It’s normal for Arthur to gag a little, but he plays it up, like Eames is just too big for him to handle. “Can’t,” he whimpers softly after he pulls back, lips shiny with saliva. 

Eames tightens his hold on the omega’s hair, and with his free hand, grips the shaft and presses the head into Arthur’s mouth again, using it to pry open his jaw. “You can,” he growls, “Now, take it. There’s my girl,” he mutters, groaning loudly when Arthur hollows his cheeks and bobs his head rapidly. He grips Eames’ thighs and focuses on breathing through his nose, even when the head nudges the back of his throat and makes him gag. 

Arthur’s lips pop noisily as he sucks Eames, and he knows his mate loves when it’s like this: loud and messy. He uses his tongue to bathe the underside of Eames’ cock, wetting not only the alpha, but also his chin when the saliva leaks from his mouth. Eames groans appreciatively, fingers furling tightly and dragging him down fast and hard until it’s too much and Arthur has to pull back again and gasp for air.

Eames strokes back his hair affectionately as Arthur pants for air, and finally, when his breathing has evened out, he gazes up at his mate. “Good, daddy?”

The alpha hums, pleased. “So good, my lovely girl. Come here,” he says, and Arthur climbs up onto the couch so he can straddle Eames’ lap. The hot, wet length of Eames’ cock presses against the front of his nighty, when Arthur wraps his arms around Eames’ neck, and they kiss roughly, nipping and biting in between tender exploration when Eames softly and apologetically presses his mouth to the bruised petals of Arthur’s mouth.

The alpha cups his rear, kneading and pawing until he pushes up the lace hem, and hooks his fingers under the thong to tug it down Arthur’s thighs. 

Arthur is soaked. He’s been in this state since the pool, but it’s gotten worse since Eames’ pheromones flooded his nostrils when he was sucking him off. Eames sinks two fingers into Arthur without having to prep him, and the omega cries out, thrusting back agains the digits. “Nice and wet for me,” Eames says cheekily, kissing the edge of Arthur’s jaw.

Testosterone surges in Eames’ body, and he picks up Arthur like he weighs nothing, arranging the omega supine on the couch. Eames kneels in front of him and pushes up the hem of the night so he can see between his mate’s legs. Arthur breathes heavily as he lays there, and passively watches as Eames slides the thong off his legs. It hits the carpet with a moist flop, and he’s dimly aware that they  _should_  move this to the bedroom because he’s so wet, and he’s going to mess the couch, but he can’t move or think how to string the proper words together to convince Eames they need to take this elsewhere.

All thoughts of civility and tidiness fly out of his head when Eames hooks his heels over his shoulders, bends down, and buries his face between Arthur’s cheeks. “Ah!” Arthur gasps, hands flying up to grip the armrest when he feels Eames tonguing his entrance. 

"You’re so wet," Eames murmurs, lapping at him hungrily as his hands slide upward to fondle the sac between his legs, and the aching, hard length of his cock.

Arthur moans, and tries to push Eames’ forehead away when his thighs tremble in warning. “Don’t,” he whimpers softly. He’s too worked up. Arthur has been wet and aching for it for  _hours_ , and he can’t handle Eames touching him like this now. They need to fuck, or he’s going to completely lose it.

Eames grips his hips to keep Arthur in place, and when he dips down again, he thrusts his tongue into the omega’s drenched depths. “Eames, no,” he moans, now legitimately humiliated. Sometimes, Eames gets him too worked up, and he gushes. The alpha  _loves_ it, but Arthur finds it embarrassing. The phenomenon is different than his normal wetness—gushing happening faster and harder.

But the alpha isn’t listening to him. Actually, he’s does the opposite, when he begins to tongue fuck the omega. “No,” Arthur moans again, throwing his arm over his eyes. He should kick away Eames, or something, but it feels too good to actually formulate a plan along those lines. Eames is  _really_ good at eating him out. He knows exactly how to use his clever tongue and fat lips to leave Arthur writhing and wet.

Eames slurps loudly as he works, and when Arthur peeks down at his mate, the alphas glances up, lower half of his face shiny with Arthur’s wetness. He moans softly at the sight.

"Tastes good, baby," he hears Eames murmur before he covers his face again. The alpha is always telling Arthur how good he tastes, but that doesn’t inspire him to embrace the gushing phenomenon. Arthur’s wetness has always been a source of embarrassment for him, and while he’s been able to get over a lot of his hangups while being married to Eames, he’s still not able to celebrate his biology in the same way the alpha does.

They should stop. Arthur  _knows_ they should stop. He feels too hot, and he’s breathing too quickly. His muscles tremble and tighten—spasming in little pre-earthquake tremors. “Please,” he whimpers, one last time, before the force of his orgasm slams into him, and he cries out. Arthur’s hands fly up to grip the armrest, and his back arches when he comes—but it’s not a normal orgasm. He knows he’s gushing, and Eames gets a front row seat, which he apparently enjoys because he groans loudly. 

At the same time, Arthur comes across his chest, and all over the black lingerie. This is a sensation only omegas understand: to ejaculate from two orifices simultaneously—to feel like one is going to be turned inside-out from the force of one’s orgasm.

Arthur’s face burns in embarrassment when he looks down and sees Eames is soaked. Of course, the alpha couldn’t look happier. He grins, tugging off his t-shirt so he can use it to wipe off some of the excess moisture. “Fucking hell,” he gasps. “So wet, my little girl.”

"I told you to stop," Arthur scowls, without any real heat behind it, because it had felt good. He’s just feeling needlessly self-conscious now.

Eames reaches forward and smacks the side of his ass cheek. “Don’t talk back to me, or I’ll take you over my knee,” he orders, still fully in character. “Roll over.”

Arthur complies, but not without sending a scowl Eames’ way, which earns him another smack across the ass. He gasps and spreads his legs, back bowed. The couch is wrecked, and vaguely, Arthur realizes they’re going to have to call upholstery cleaners, and won’t that be embarrassing? Explaining to total strangers that the reason their couch is ruined is because he’s a gusher and his husband is a nymphomaniac.

"Say you want daddy’s cock," Eames growls from behind him, as if to prove his point.

Arthur whimpers and rests his brow against his forearm. Eames is trying to kill him. When he feels the alpha press his cock against the spasming muscles at his entrance, he whispers: “Want it,” hoping that will be enough.

But of course, it isn’t. Eames pauses, then pushes the head in a little, and withdraws. “Want what, baby?”

Arthur groans, fluctuating between misery and extreme horniness. He’s going to murder Eames when this is over. “Your cock, daddy. Need it,” he begs, swaying his hips a little, hoping to tempt the alpha into fucking him.

It works. Eames pushes into him with a single, unrelenting thrust that knocks the air out of Arthur’s lungs. They partially collapse forward, Eames draped along his back, fucking him so hard that his arms give out and he falls against the cushions. Arthur wails helplessly, but keeps his knees propped up under him, and claws are the armrest, desperately trying to hold on while the alpha ruts him. Eames is a hot, solid force at his back, his hips issuing punishing strikes against the swell of his rear.

Arthur is overly sensitive from his orgasm, and while it feels good, Eames’ cock occasionally pushes him closer towards the  _pain_ end of their lovemaking spectrum. He knows Eames is close when his mate’s breathing takes on a ragged edge. “Fill me up, daddy,” he whines, focusing on squeezing his internal muscles to help Eames along. 

"Good girl. Make daddy come," his mate growls right before finding his release.

Eames’ shout thunders through the room, and he buries himself deep inside the omega, while Arthur whimpers, scrambling for purchase because he knows what’s going to happen next. Eames rearranges them on their sides, arms wrapped around Arthur, keeping him pinned in place. “No…” Arthur moans delusionally, even though this is exactly what he wants and needs. 

Luckily, Eames knows he’s out of his head right now. The alpha strokes his stomach through the negligee, and presses his lips to the side of Arthur’s throat. “Shh…” he soothes, as he starts to expand, and the omega whimpers fearfully. 

Arthur’s brain powers down, and he can’t think rationally. He  _wants_  to feel them knotted together, and yet he’s always seized by an irrational fear that the knot will kill him—splitting him in two as if he was made of paper mache. Eames feels huge inside him, and when he reaches down, he swears he can feel the outline of the alpha’s cock pressed against this stomach. “Too big,” he whispers, his body trembling, fresh tears wetting the corners of his eyes.

He always insists it’s too much when he’s like this, but actually it’s perfect, and it’s what he’s been yearning for all day, since they were interrupted in the pool. Eames makes a soft, sympathetic noise, and kisses the spot beneath Arthur’s ear. “Such a good omega,” he praises, and Arthur’s chest swells with pride. His alpha says he’s good, and those simple words of encouragement soothe him until Eames finds his release.

Arthur moans softly, and Eames covers his lips with his mouth. They kiss tenderly through Eames’ orgasm, the alpha groaning occasionally against his lips. He gives an experimental rock backwards, just to feel the knot tug a little, and they moan together in response. 

When the frenzy passes, and they’re left with the warm, content afterglow, Arthur gazes down at where Eames has covered his hands atop his stomach. “Well, I guess there’s one perk of the kids being gone,” Arthur murmurs, smiling when he feels Eames’ chest vibrating against his back as he laughs.

"Agreed," he purrs, giving the omega’s neck a playful little nip.


	20. Arthur and Eames explain the birds and the bees

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames explain the birds and the bees.

"I really think they’re too young, darling."

"And I keep telling you, they’re not."

Eames stands in the doorway of their bedroom, watching Arthur fold the laundry on the bed.

He sighs, exasperated, but defeated. 

It’s an argument they’ve had many times before, regarding when it’s best to sit down the sprogs for the infamous birds and bees conversation. But Max is only twelve, which Eames thought was his ace in the hole until Arthur pointed out he was filled with questions and confusion at that age, but unfortunately had foster parents unequipped to handle such a moment. 

"Jack is fourteen. He’s going to have his first heat in about two years. He should know this stuff, Eames," his mate says as he stacks the folded t-shirts, preparing them for their journey to the dresser drawer. "Besides," Arthur says as he carries the shirts over, flips open the drawer, and then pauses to stare meaningfully at Eames. "I saw his web browsing history, and  _believe me_ , he’s already curious.”

His brows raise slowly. “You’re joking,” he says disbelievingly, but judging from the way Arthur rolls his eyes after putting away the shirts, and then knocks the drawer shut with a saucy little thrust of his hip, he’s not. “You know that’s an invasion of our son’s privacy, don’t you?” Eames asks teasingly, just to lighten the mood for a fraction of a second.

Arthur smooths a hand along the bed comforter, pushing out any wrinkles incurred during laundry folding time. “This house isn’t a democracy,” he answers vaguely, and not for the first time, Eames considers what a chilly little despot his lovely Arthur would make.

When the omega looks at him, Eames shakes his head, but he’s smirking. “Yeah, you’ve said before. All right, my love. If you think it’s time, it’s time.”

***

The plan is this: They will sit down the sprogs together to do a sort of general breakdown of ABO cycles, rituals, and bonding, and then field individual questions in private. Eames with handle Jack, and Arthur will speak with Rose and Max separately.

It becomes clear almost immediately that this is a disastrous idea. Jack is nervous, so at the first mention of genitalia, he falls to pieces, sniggering and looking to Eames for confirmation that this is the funniest thing ever. Eames presses his lips together and shakes his head, the universal signal for:  _stop it, mate, or Arthur is going to kill us both_ , but Jack can’t help it. 

He  _loses his mind_ when Arthur mentions that omegas are capable of reproduction.

"Wait,  _babies_?” he cries, eyes wide.

Arthur nods, arms crosses over his chest in a very defensive position, Eames notes. His mate isn’t one hundred percent comfortable with this either. “Yes, babies.”

Jack moves to the edge of his spot on the couch, sandwiched between Rose and Max. “ _Wait_ , so omegas have the babies?”

Arthur eyes him warily. “That’s right. I’m an omega, so I had you guys.”

Eames can virtually see Jack connect the dots in realtime. Eyes wide, he slowly looks over to a miserable-looking Max, and points accusingly at him. “You’re going to have babies!” he cries, and dissolves at once into a fit of hysterical laughter.

“ _Jack_ ,” Arthur chastises, but it’s too late, judging by the horrified expression on Max’s face.

"Gross!" he shouts. "I’m not having babies! That’s not true, right?" he pleads, gazing at Arthur.

Arthur wordlessly flails for a moment, and Eames can tell he’s struggling to get his thoughts in order. This is a man accustomed to sending his team into gunfire, and handling explosives logistics, but the logic of children has always been a bit beyond his grasp. 

Eames clears his throat, snaring the sprogs’ attention: “Well, it’s technically true. You don’t  _have_ to have babies, Max, but you’re biologically capable of carrying them.”

There. All fixed.

Except, things only get worse after that. Max turns beet red, and practically drapes himself over the armrest in resigned misery for the rest of the speech, while Rose remains stormy and silent, until she asks: “Why did you spend so much time on them, and barely said anything about betas?”

Eames inwardly winces. It’s a fair question. They know a lot about alphas and omegas, for obvious reasons, but their knowledge of betas is somewhat limited to what they’ve learned in health books. But even acquiring all the clinical knowledge in the world can’t magically transport via osmosis real world knowledge and experience of being a beta.

"I have some books on betas, if you want them," Arthur says sincerely, but it’s the worst possible thing he could have said in that moment. Arthur may be comforted by neat indexes and orderly information, but Rose just wants to know her dads care as much for her as they do for the boys.

Rose rolls her eyes. “Gee, thanks,” she murmurs, climbing off the couch. “I think I got this. I’ll be in my room,” she says as she walks from the room.

"Rose," Arthur calls after her, but she doesn’t turn around.

"I have homework," she replies by way of explanation, and the sound of her door slamming carries down the hallway.

They disband the sex talk shortly after that.

***

After that, the idea is to speak with the kids one-on-one.

Eames starts with Jack, who much to his surprise (and alarm) seems to know a lot about this sex business already.

"Tell me what you know," Eames says as he sits on the side of Jack’s bed. 

His son’s brow raise in a very familiar expression, and he smirks. “Uhh…okay. Well, alphas have sex with omegas.”

Eames nods. A good start. “Right, how do they do that?”

Jack squints at him a little, like he thinks this might be a trick, but when he sees his father is serious, he shrugs. “With their dic—penises,” he corrects, flushing a bit. “Into…the omega’s…you know,” he mumbles.

Eames decides to spare his son the humiliation of having to go into more graphic details. “Right, and you know you can get an omega pregnant if you do that, yeah?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “Yeah.”

"And that if an omega isn’t on suppressants, they can  _always_ get pregnant, yeah?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jack says, a little more exasperated this time. 

Eames nods a little, and takes a moment to glance around the boys’ room. “Well, do you have any questions for me?” he asks, deciding to take a different approach to all this.

Jack is thoughtfully quiet for a moment before he frowns and furrows his brow. “One thing, yeah. Um…about knotting.”

Eames gazes at him expectantly, waiting.

Jack fidgets and pushes his back off the wall so he can sit forward on the bed. “Okay, so…like, you’re  _stuck_ in the omega? Is that right?”

Later, Eames will be able to declare one of his proudest moments in life was keeping a totally neutral expression on his face in response to his son’s hilarious disbelief. He nods slowly. “That’s right. The penis swells, and you’re attached to the omega for something like fifteen minutes. Maybe longer.”

Jack makes a face. “Oh man. Can you have sex without knotting?”

Eames shrugs his broad shoulders. “You  _could_. It’s not as nice, though,” and because he can practically hear Arthur’s annoyed voice in his head, he adds, “But you should only knot with someone who you think is your mate. Otherwise, it’s not as special.”

"Is that was you did? Waited for dad?"

Damnit.

"Uh, no," Eames confesses, deciding honesty is the best policy. "But I didn’t have a good dad to explain this stuff to me," he says, smiling weakly, "Had to figure it out on my own, so I made some mistakes. I don’t want you to make those same mistakes, though."

Jack seems to buy that explanation because he nods slowly. “I think…I want to wait for my mate,” he says.

"Yeah?" Eames asks, gazing at his son’s face.

Jack nods, staring at his hands quietly for a couple seconds before he looks at Eames. “Yeah, I mean…if that’s how you met dad, and I want what you guys have, so…yeah. I’m going to wait.”

***

Max is not happy. His son glowers at him from the edge of his bed as Arthur paces across the room. He picks up one of Max’s teddybears and squeezes it while he thinks.

Eames had been practically preening when he emerged from the boy’s room and declared he’d successfully discussed sex with their son. Now, all the pressure is on Arthur to nail the birds and the bees conversation with Max.

He sets the bear back down, turns, and smiles at Max. “So, baby. Do you have questions about what we talked about before?”

“ _No_ ,” Max spits frigidly. 

Arthur sighs, slowly crosses the room, and sits beside Max. “I know this stuff seems scary and weird right now, but I promise, it’ll be the most natural thing in the world when you meet your mate,” he explains softly, reaching out to tuck an errant curl behind Max’s ear.

Max furrows his brow disbelievingly, but at least he doesn’t pull away from Arthur’s touch. “What if I don’t want a mate?”

Arthur smiles in amusement, though not in a condescending way. He too felt that way when he was Max’s age. “You feel that way now, but one day you’ll meet someone who will change your mind.”

Max seems to be softening to—if not the idea of a mate—then at least the idea of discussing this with Arthur. He frowns and looks up at him. “Is that what happened with you and dad?”

Arthur nods. “Oh yeah, I wanted nothing to do with alphas before your dad,” he says, grinning. “I thought all alphas were pigs, to be honest,” and he snickers when Max smirks wickedly in response to that confession. He’s always game for bashing alphas, since he’s frequently annoyed with his brother. “That’s why it’s important to wait for your mate.”

Max sobers and nods a little. “How will I know?”

And as much as he hates to respond so vaguely, Arthur must, because it’s the truth: “You’ll just know, baby.”

Arthur takes the space allocated by their temporary truce to explain suppressants to Max, and some finer details about the heat cycles (a rundown of little heats, in addition to the big heats,) and at the end, he asks: “Any questions?”

Max frowns distastefully. “I don’t want babies.”

Arthur carefully watches his son’s face. “Why not?”

The little omega sighs dramatically. “Because Jack will make fun of me.”

He smiles in response, unable to help himself. Eames is right about one thing: Max is still very young in some ways. “This sex stuff just makes him nervous, baby. He doesn’t want to think about an alpha touching you, so he makes fun of the idea,” Arthur explains.

Max scowls. “I don’t want an alpha touching me either.”

His son has a strong aversion to strangers, or anyone outside their immediate family, so Arthur understands that the idea of being intimate with a foreign alpha is terrifying to him.

"Well, there’s no hurry, okay? You can stay with us as long as you want," Arthur says, wrapping an arm around Max to hug him, and presses a kiss to his temple. "No pressure," he emphasizes.

Max brightens a little after that. “When Jack moves out, can I expand my room?”

Arthur smirks as he stands up. “We’ll see,” he says vaguely, but apparently it’s enough for Max because he smiles so brightly that he dimples, all thoughts of alphas and babies sailing right out of his head.

***

Arthur tentatively knocks on Rose’s door and waits for his daughter to call  _come in_ before he slips into the room. Rose is seated at her desk, laptop open and her Facebook profile on the screen.

"Hey," Arthur says, smiling tight-lipped.

Rose looks less that psyched to see him. “Hey,” she echoes flatly, but she doesn’t start screeching for Arthur to get out when he slowly walks over to her bed and has a seat, so he thinks that’s a good sign.

Arthur knows he’s in the wrong here, so he opens by saying: “Honey, I’m sorry. I never want you to think you’re unimportant. It’s just that dad and I honestly don’t have personal experience as betas, so we don’t know a lot of stuff.”

Rose turns to face him, criss-crossing legs beneath her. “So…what? I should just figure it out on my own?”

"No," Arthur says quickly, then sighs because he feels a little out of his depth here. 

His daughter seems to take a little pity on him because her tone is much softer the next time she speaks: “I just hate how you always talk about me  _in relation_ to omegas or alphas—how maybe one day, if I’m super lucky, I can knock up an omega, or be second fiddle to some alpha. I want to know what makes  _me_ special.”

Arthur smiles slowly as he watches her speak, and he’s reminded yet again that his daughter is quite brilliant. Rose’s hair is pulled back in a long ponytail that drapes over her shoulder, and she fiddles with the end of it—a nervous habit. “What?” she asks when she notices her father staring at her.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. You just remind me of—” Arthur pauses, eyes widening slightly. “What if I could arrange a talk with another beta? So you could ask them anything you want, and they can share personal experiences with you?”

Rose eyes him skeptically. “Who?”

"Your Aunt Ariadne."

Rose stops playing with her hair immediately. “Aunt Ari is a beta?” she asks, attention totally snared.

Arthur grins and mentally pats himself on the back. “Ariadne is extremely beta,” he chuckles. And brilliant, and shrewd, and loyal—just like Rose. “She’ll love to talk to you about this stuff, sweetheart. And I do too, but I know it will help to speak to another beta, and a woman.”

Rose grins. “That’d be awesome,” she says eventually, quietly.

***

Apparently, Rose’s chat with Ariadne goes well because they end up Skyping regularly, and Rose soon starts to chatter about plans to visit her aunt in Paris one day. It doesn’t surprise Arthur to hear this. Rose always had an independent streak in her, and she’s eager to see the world. Arthur was the same way at her age.

But one morning, Arthur awakes to the sound of his daughter cursing the wireless internet connection, and when he stumbles out of the bedroom, he sees Rose crouched in the hallway, router unplugged and clutched in her hands, as she shakes it threateningly.

"Rose?" he croaks, staring at her in confusion.

"The  _stupid_ internet is out!” she shouts, shoving the plug back in the outlet and glaring intimidatingly at the flashing blue light.

Arthur blinks and looks at the kitchen clock. “Honey, it’s six in the morning. Go back to bed. Maybe it’ll be working later.”

"No! I need it now!" she insists so vehemently that Arthur is temporarily stunned. This is very unlike Rose, who is normally more reserved, quiet, and thoughtful. 

He slowly walks over to her and bends down so he can rest a comforting hand against her upper back. “What’s going on with you?” he whispers right before his daughter dissolves into a fit of tears.

***

"I need to talk to Aunt Ari," Rose cries as Arthur gently presses her shoulder until she lays down in bed.

"Why, honey?" he whispers, hoping she’ll match his volume and not wake the whole house with…whatever this is.

Rose sniffles, her face a puffy, wet mess. Her skin is flushed, and at first, Arthur thinks she must be hysterical with a fever, but then he realizes Rose is  _blushing_. “Something’s wrong with me,” she murmurs.

"What’s wrong with you?" he prompts gently, taking her hand in his own and giving it an encouraging squeeze.

Rose makes a soft noise of distress, and gazes longingly one last at her laptop as if hoping her aunt’s face will magically fill the screen, before she whispers: “I’m bleeding.”

Shit.

In his frenzy to organize information about ABO dynamics, Arthur forgot to mention the most basic thing ever: women’s reproductive cycles. Shitshit _shit_. He’s the worst father in the world. “Oh, baby,” he whispers, touching her brow. “That’s normal, okay? It happens to every woman.” He also wonders how Ariadne managed to forget to mention this extremely important detail, and reminds himself to do something passive aggressive to her later.

Rose eyes him warily. “Really?” she whispers.

Arthur smiles encouragingly. “It means you can have babies now,” he says, and adds: “You’ll bleed for a few days, but don’t worry, dad and I will get you everything you need, okay? You just rest today.”

His daughter appears to be relaxing gradually, and she nods a little. “Can dad make chocolate pancakes too?” she whispers, ever the negotiator. 

Arthur grins. “Definitely,” he says, and then leans forward to kiss her brow. “I love you, honey. I’ll be right back, okay?”

***

Arthur practically jumps on the bed, which scares the hell out of Eames, who startles awake.

“ _Eames,_ " he hisses. " _Wake up_.”

Eames can barely open his eyes, but he levels his slitted gaze at Arthur. “Whatsthat?” he mumbles, confused and disoriented.

"You have to go to the store  _now_ ,” Arthur instructs, pushing something against his hand, and when he looks down, he sees it’s his wallet and car keys. 

"What?" he mutters, looking at the clock, and then the open door. He wonders if the house is on fire, but then..why would Arthur be sending him to the store?

"The  _store_ , Eames,” Arthur emphasizes, closing his fingers around the wallet. “You have to go get tampons and pads, and maybe anti-bloating medicine.”

Eames stares at him. “What’s happening?” he rumbles.

Arthur gives an exasperated sigh and grips him by his shoulders, shaking him a little. “ _Listen_ to me. Our daughter, Rose, got her period, and now you have to go get her tampons, and pads, and anti-bloating medicine, and then make her chocolate chip pancakes. Not blueberry.  _Chocolate chip_. I can’t handle her crying anymore, Eames.”

Eames stares blankly at him again. But eventually, the fog clears from his mind, and he’s able to make sense of what Arthur is telling him.  _Rose_. He’d been so preoccupied in his male/alpha-dominated world that he completely forgot about this inevitability.  _Her period_. Of course. It was never something he and Arthur discussed, though, but now that this new job presents itself, Eames gamely rolls out of bed to find a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Why’s she crying?" he asks when he pulls on his t-shirt, and when he glances in the mirror, he sees his hair is in total disarray.

"Because she’s a woman and I don’t understand anything," Arthur rambles and grips the alpha by the arm again, getting really close to him. Eames notes his eyes are a little wild. "You understand what you have to get, right?"

Eames cocks an eyebrow. He’s never seen the omega look this unhinged. “Yeah, love. I think I got it,” he smirks.

He’s an overconfident fool.

***

Eames stands in row six of their local pharmacy, which is, the nice lady at the front counter explained to him, the female hygiene aisle.

He was not prepared to be confronted with literally dozens of options of both tampons, and pads, and he’s feeling a touch overwhelmed when his phone buzzes in his pocket.

"Hello?" he asks, immediately hearing the lost orphan quality in his voice. He’s in over his head here.

“ _Eames_ ,” the chilly voice of his beloved immediately fills his ear. “Where the fuck are you? I just asked Rose if she wants a cup of tea and she started crying again. I need backup.”

Eames stares at the walls of feminine products boxing him in. “Uh…minor hiccup in the plan. Did you know there are literally hundreds of products to choose from?”

He suddenly hears a muffled wailing noise. “Shit, there she goes again. I have to go. Just  _make a decision_ , Eames. Hurry up.”

Eames stares down at his phone, and then slowly pockets it again. He looks back to the slew of boxes and exhales loudly. “Right then.”

***

When Eames pulls into the garage, Arthur is standing in the doorway that leads into the house, waiting for him. He parks, switches off the engine, and climbs out, hands immediately raised in apology. “I know, I’m sorry. You’ve just no idea, Arthur. I didn’t know where to start.”

The omega is already down the stairs and walking to his trunk, clearly not in the mood for a fight after what he’s been going through with Rose. “Show me what you got.”

"Well, that’s the thing," Eames says and pops open the trunk to reveal practically the entire contents of aisle six. "I didn’t know what she needed, so…"

"You got everything," Arthur murmurs, eyes wide. "Oh my God, Eames," he says, and he might even laugh a little when he reaches into the trunk and grabs an armful. "Help me carry this."

They end up presenting the boxes to Rose like she’s an angry god they’re trying to appease with a meager sacrifice, and she stares at the mound of feminine products before bursting into tears again. She feels embarrassed and overwhelmed, and her idiot fathers aren’t making things better.

Thankfully, Arthur is able to get a hold of Ariadne on FaceTime, and fills her in on what’s happening.

"You morons," she laughs, then adds, "Show me what you got."

Ariadne finally advises they start Rose with pads—it’s just easier, she says. At a future date, she’ll explain tampons to their daughter, but considering she’s a virgin, it’s simpler to start things this way. She also suggests Motrin to alleviate any cramping. Then she calls them morons again, Arthur thanks her, and they hang up.

When Rose is all sorted, Eames makes a stack of chocolate chip pancakes, and may threaten Jack’s life when the alpha breezes into the kitchen and tries to eat one of them. Then they set up camp on the couch, Rose laying between them with her head on Arthur’s lap, and feet propped up on Eames’ legs, while they watch  _Love Actually_.

Arthur tucks a blanket around Rose’s form, and Max helpfully clears away Rose’s plate that contains only a couple leftover crumbs from the pancakes. 

"Feeling better?" Arthur asks softly, stroking back Rose’s hair as they watch the little redheaded kid run through the airport.

Rose sniffles and shakes her head a little. Arthur’s chest tightens, and for a split second, he feels as though he and Eames have failed, even though that’s silly. It’s not as though they can  _defeat_ Rose’s period, as much as he’d like to.

Sensing his sadness, Rose reaches up to catch his hand and squeeze it gently. “But thank you,” she whispers, smiling faintly at him. 

Arthur smiles slowly. “Don’t thank me. Thank your dad.”

Rose nudges Eames’ leg. “Thank yoooou,” she says playfully, smiling at the alpha.

"My pleasure, darling," Eames says, squeezing the arch of her foot.


	21. What Patrick and Edward got up to

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What Patrick and Edward got up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Smut n' fluff

Patrick calls the house randomly one day, and opens things by declaring, “I did it!” which is so vague and out of the blue that Arthur automatically wonders if that’s code, but then he remembers Patrick is a stay-at-home-omega, and not a spy. 

"You did what?" he chuckles.

There’s a shuffling noise, and when Patrick speaks again, his voice is hushed and slightly muffled. Arthur pictures him crouched under the kitchen table or something. “The bedroom stuff we talked about.”

Ohhh. He’d completely forgotten about the chat they’d had all those months ago. Poor Patrick. Arthur imagines it took him this long just to psych himself up to try and change his dynamic with Edward. “And it went okay?” he prompts.

He can practically feel the other omega smile through the phone. “Uh-huh. Really well.”

***

Patrick spends months formulating a plan. He knows he’ll never be as forward as Arthur, but he wants to try something—even if it’s a tiny change in their typical routine.

Eddie always initiates their lovemaking, which he likes, but he thinks his partner will be surprised (maybe even pleasantly so) if he spontaneously seduces him. Everything about their usual behavior is traditional, including positions in bed. Patrick is always on bottom, either in missionary, or on all fours, which he likes… _a lot_ , but he wants to surprise his mate, and show that he’s still interesting and exciting after all these years.

At least once, he wants to be sexy and confident like Arthur.

Patrick pulls on his skimpiest underwear, which is still probably considered modest by most standards, but they’re small enough that the swells of his cheeks peek out a bit at the top, and he knows for a fact Eddie likes that. Then he covers himself in a robe, sits on the edge of the bed, and waits for his mate to get home from work.

His heart races in his chest because he doesn’t really have a plan. He tries to remember what Arthur told him, but he’s too nervous to try some of the bolder suggestions the other omega made. He could  _never_ slap Eddie. Not in a million years. The very idea makes him sick, even if it’s part of a bedroom fantasy.

So maybe he can try one of the more humble suggestions. 

Maybe. 

He can always bail in the middle of things if it’s too scary, and let Eddie take charge again.

When he hears the front door open, he leaps off the bed, and quickly checks his hair in the bureau mirror before he rushes out to greet his mate. The alpha is just putting his briefcase down by the door when he sees Patrick pad out of the bedroom dressed in a robe.

"Hey, poppet. Did I wake you?"

Patrick shakes his head a little and smiles. “No, I was waiting for you,” he says as he approaches the alpha, and leans up to kiss him.

Edward hums happily and gently touches beneath Patrick’s chin. “Well, that’s nice to hear after the day I’ve had,” he replies wearily, and now that he’s close to his mate, Patrick sees how tired he looks. He watches as the alpha slides off his suit jacket and loosens his tie. “I need a hot meal and a drink.”

 _Oh_.

Patrick eyes the kitchen nervously. He’d been so preoccupied getting ready to seduce his mate that he forgot about making dinner. 

Edward apparently misses his distress because he walks over to the wet bar and pours himself a glass of brandy. “That idiot, Johnson, botched another case, but he chose not to  _share_ this fact with any of us until this week, which is when we’re braced to meet with the other partners,” he says before pausing to take a sip of the liquor. When he looks back to Patrick, the alpha sighs. “It’s just…a mess.”

He makes a soft, sympathetic noise. “I’m sorry, Eddie.” 

Meanwhile, his brain races. He considers scrapping the plan entirely, and rushing to fix the alpha a meal—something, anything hot, just to get his mind off the awful day. When he looks back to the wet bar, Edward is still speaking: “…it’s why I hate being part of group think, you know? I’m responsible for my own actions—no one else’s. How is it my fault if there’s some lawyer, fresh from taking the bar, who’s too wet behind the ears to realize when he’s flushed a case down the drain?”

Patrick is starting to feel a little foolish standing there, especially when he comprehends his mate might be too upset to participate in his silly little experiment.

Edward must notice his reticence because he pauses and sighs. “Sorry, poppet. I don’t mean to unload on you. How was your day?”

He smiles softly. “Good. Nothing new, really,” he fibs, and then immediately feels guilty for lying to his mate.

The alpha eyes him silently before he speaks again: “You okay?”

"Um…" he replies inarticulately and then slowly walks towards the bedroom. "Can I show you something?" And he has  _no idea_ why he phrases it that way because now Eddie will be expecting to  _see_ something when he walks into the bedroom behind Patrick, and he’s just going to be standing there in his underwear like a big idiot.

But the alpha follows him, and Patrick’s fingers are trembling a little when he unties his robe. He lets it slip off his shoulders and pool around his ankles, and he deliberately keeps his back to Edward, mostly so he doesn’t have to see his face, but also because this is the easiest way to show his rear on the off chance the alpha might be interested in making love after his long, terrible day.

He hears the alpha exhale in surprise, and when he gazes over his shoulder, Eddie _definitely_ doesn’t look angry.

"Look at you," he says softly, clearly surprised.

Patrick smiles slowly. So far, so good.

The only problem is, he doesn’t know what comes next, but he feels slightly emboldened by his mate’s positive reaction. Patrick asks himself WWAD: What Would Arthur Do?

So he crawls onto the bed and looks over at Eddie when he’s kneeling on the mattress. His mate approaches slowly, still dressed in his work attire: crisp white dress shirt, neatly pressed slacks, polished shoes, skinny black tie. Patrick finds he doesn’t want him to shed the clothing. 

"Were you planning this all day?" the alpha asks in a low rumble.

Patrick shivers a little and nods. When Eddie’s close to him, he grips his chin gently, tilts his head back, and kisses his mouth. Patrick has to fight the urge to immediately bow before his mate and stick his ass into the air. As much as he’d love to do that, and as good as Eddie would make it for him, that’s not what tonight is about.

Tonight is supposed to be different.

"Sit on the bed with your back against the headboard," he says softly, but assertively.

Eddie looks surprised, but he smiles slowly. “My, my…You  _have_ been planning,” he chuckles, but obliges. When he sits on the edge of the bed and bends down to remove his shoes, Patrick touches his arm.

"Leave them," he says, eyes shining now that he’s gotten a boost of confidence.

The alpha pauses and looks at him, and for a split second, Patrick’s stomach drops. He wonders if he’s gone too far as Eddie eyes him, but the alpha quietly obliges, moving to the center of the bed.

Patrick quickly follows him and straddles his mate’s lap, which seems to amuse the alpha because he smiles and immediately moves to grip his rear, but Patrick grabs his wrists and pins them to the bed. If Eddie touches him that way, it means the alpha is in control, and that’s not what tonight is supposed to be. Because tonight is  _different_.

Eddie’s eyebrows raise on his forehead and he gazes curiously at the omega. Patrick watches his face closely as he raises the alpha’s hands to the headboard, and calmly instructs: “Hold onto the headboard until I say to let go.”

Time stops for a couple seconds when Eddie’s hands rest against the top of the board, unresponsive and limp. His mate’s dark gaze roams across his face curiously, and Patrick sees the plethora of emotions unfold in his eyes: the confusion, a flash of anger, curiosity, lust, and finally…

Eddie’s fingers curl, gripping the board firmly.

Patricks smiles slowly and leans down to kiss the serious line of his mate’s mouth. “Good,” he praises, and releases the alpha’s wrists. 

"Why, thank you, my love," Eddie replies, amused and slightly sarcastic, probably because he feels totally out of his element.

"Don’t talk," Patrick instructs—sweet, but firm.

Eddie blinks owlishly again as the omega loosens his tie, and unbuttons the collar of his shirt. He leans down, and splays kisses along the gradually revealed flesh, and if the alpha was annoyed by his behavior, he forgets to be pissed when Patrick eases down his torso towards his stomach. He hears Eddie begin to say something, and then stop himself, effectively obeying the omega’s order.

He feels a little lightheaded at the realization.

Patrick cups him through his pants, and massages the outline of Eddie’s cock until it starts to harden. The alpha’s broad chest rises and falls rapidly, dress shirt parted, but still framing the sides of his torso, tie hanging against his bare chest. And Patrick is bias, but he thinks Eddie looks  _hot_.

His mate moans loudly when Patrick leans down and mouths his erection through the fabric, and he lets that violation slide because, technically, he told Eddie not to  _speak_. When he looks up again, he watches his mate’s biceps flex from the strain of holding on to the board. Patrick locks gazes with Eddie, and the alpha looks so heated and feral that it makes him shiver a little.

His fingers grip the zipper and ease it down so he can free the alpha’s cock, and his mate audibly sighs in relief when his generous length is no longer constrained by the trousers. Patricks smiles at him, and is relieved when Eddie smirks back. He kisses the tip, and then mouths along the shaft, and then grips Eddie’s hips when they try to lift off the bed. 

The alpha grunts softly in frustration, and in apology, Patrick takes his cock into his mouth and gives it a firm suck.

Eddie cries out, legs thrashing and very nearly kicking him, before Patrick pulls back with a loud pop of his lips. He smiles triumphantly up at the alpha, who stares back at him disbelievingly with wide eyes. Eddie then laughs breathlessly, eyes bright and curious about what’s gotten into his little omega.

Unbuttoning his slacks, Patrick eases them off his hips to mid-thigh so his mate’s cock springs into the air unencumbered. Then he shimmies out of his underwear, and tosses aside the damp fabric. He’s been leaking regularly for the past hour, or so, just thinking about this moment, so he’s more than ready by the time he straddles Eddie’s hips, and grips his cock. “Don’t let go,” he instructs one last time before sinking down on the alpha’s length.

They cry out together, although Eddie’s shout drowns out the omega’s exclamation. He’s seized by the immediately urge for Eddie to grab him, flips them over, and fuck him hard, but he just manages to stop himself from begging for that very thing.  _Not tonight_.

He gets his feet under him, grips the alpha’s broad shoulders, and begins to ride him quickly. Eddie’s crown cracks against the headboard when he throws his head back, but he doesn’t seem to register the pain because he’s groaning loudly. “Oh God,” Patrick whines, arching his back, and pressing his hands to Eddie’s stomach and thigh to balance himself as he bounces on his cock.

The change of angle and power structure enhance everything, and Patrick feels slightly drunk when Eddie gazes up at him with glassy eyes, his lips agape as he moans loudly again. 

He trembles when another wave of wetness pours from him and slicks the alpha’s cock, allowing him to move faster. The friction is building quickly, and he can tell by the way the alpha is desperately trying to thrust his hips up that he’s close too. “Want to come?” he asks, feeling another tremor course through him at the idea that he could, if he wanted to, prevent Eddie from coming. 

The alpha—his strong, gorgeous alpha—nods helplessly.

And because this is a night of firsts, Patrick fully embraces his new role of confident, sexy omega and asks: “Want to fuck me hard until you come?”

Eddie looks like a man dying from thirst, and Patrick is the oasis he’s just spotted on the desert’s horizon. He nods, but just barely, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he strains to hold on and watches the omega ride him.

"When I say go," Patrick gasps, rolling his hips a little to hear his mate groan. "You can fuck me, okay?"

Eddie nods rapidly. At this point, if the omega asked him to cut off his right hand, he’d probably do it for the opportunity to come inside him.

He smooths his hands down Eddie’s sweat-covered chest and stomach, feeling his abdominals contract as he fights not to orgasm right then and there. “Ready?” Patrick asks teasingly, squeezing his inner muscles. “Go.”

The room blurs when Eddie tackles him to the bed, and Patrick just manages to throw his arms around the alpha’s shoulders and wrap his legs around his waist when he starts rutting him roughly. “Ah!” Patrick cries, head tilting back off the edge of the bed, and he has an upside-down view of the wall as Edward fucks him so hard, his teeth rattle in his head. 

He’s so wet, but Eddie is big and the friction is still delicious, and he trembles again as another mini-orgasm passes through his body. Patrick wails, clawing at the back of his mate’s dress shirt, heels kicking the back of Eddie’s thighs like he’s trying to spur on a horse. The alpha grabs one of his thighs and presses it to the mattress, keeping it pinned in place as he fucks him, and Patrick feels tears run down his face—not from pain, but because it feels  _so good_.

His fingers fly upward and furl in the alpha’s hair, tugging until his mate looks up, and they kiss hungrily. He keeps pulling, just enough to add a touch of pain to their pleasure, and the alpha moans appreciatively into his mouth. 

Patrick always equated pain with punishment, but now he understands—pain can be part of passion, too.

Eddie groans loudly into his mouth, hips pistoning forth rapidly and jarring Patrick’s slight frame, until the omega practically screams, and curls his toes when he comes hard across his chest. The alpha collapses atop him, still moaning, and Patrick gropes at his back, feeling the fabric of his shirt cling to the sweaty base of his spine.

"Jesus Christ, Pat," his mate laughs breathlessly, and the omega trembles again hearing the joy in his voice.

When Eddie begins to swell, Patrick moans softly and buries his face in the alpha’s neck, breathing in his scent, and revelling in the post-coital bliss. He rhythmically squeezes his inner muscles because he knows the alpha likes it, and it also helps the knot from growing too big. His mate moans appreciatively at the sensation, and looks at him again, shaking his head slightly in disbelief. “Where the bloody hell did that come from?” he whispers, bending down to softly kiss Patrick’s mouth.

Patrick is quiet until he’s sure the knot is done growing, and he can catch his breath again. He feels euphoric: full and totally sated. He shrugs a little, smiling up at the alpha. “I wanted to be sexy for you.”

"You’re always sexy," Eddie whispers, kissing the side of his throat. The alpha is partially braced on his forearms so he doesn’t crush Patrick with his weight.

"Well…I wanted to…I dunno. Prove I can be like this too," he says softly, reaching up to gently cup the sides of his mate’s face.

Eddie furrows his brow a bit. “Well, this was lovely, don’t get me wrong,” he says, smiling in a way that inspires Patrick to instantly mirror the expression. “But I love you as you are, Pat.”

It’s probably the hormones surging through his system post-coitus that are to blame, but Patrick feels tears well up in his eyes at Eddie’s words. “Really?” he whispers, and Eddie makes a soft, soothing sound in response.

"You’re perfect, poppet," he murmurs and leans down to kiss the tears from Patrick’s face.


	22. Christmastime!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmastime!

It’s the holidays, so the sprogs are visiting and the house is bursting at the seams. Rose volunteers to sleep in the boys’ room so Max and Ravi can have her old bed, and somehow they make it work, unconscious and balanced precariously on the twin mattress. It’s nice to have their home buzzing with noise and energy again, and Eames indulges in the annual tradition of going absolutely mental with the Christmas decorations.

For once, Arthur lets him completely off the leash, and their home looks like the inside of a Macy’s show room—garish, gold garlands streaming from the ceiling, a lavish tree straining under the weight of ornaments, and even a reindeer with a light-up red nose that Arthur glares at every time he passes it in the hallway.

"It’s Rudolph!" Eames declares, smiling brightly when he screws on the nose and it lights up, and he looks up to find Arthur looming over him.

"I know who it is," Arthur responds icily, probably fantasizing about all the ways he’d love to destroy the thing.

But the children are home, so Arthur isn’t allowed to be a stick in the mud. He allows Eames to hang the stockings, and the wreaths, but he draws the line at fake snow.

"That stuff is going to give us emphysema," he says, cradling a large mixing bowl against his hips as he whips the batter for yet another batch of cookies.

If Eames is an insane holiday decorator, Arthur is equally guilty of going overboard cooking. The kitchen is usually Eames’ terrain, but Arthur insisted on taking the helm this time—probably because he’s in a good mood that the kids are visiting, and he wants to remain in the center of the house at all times to see everyone. As it turns out, the omega is a very good little chef, and has apparently been secretly harboring a sweet tooth because he’s baked mounds of delicious cookies that Eames keeps stealing off the trays.

He’s going to gain ten pounds this Christmas, and he’s giddy at the prospect.

"Morning!" he crows when Max and Ravi come stumbling out of Rose’s bedroom. 

Max squints at him in confusion, and then furrows his brow when he sees Arthur mixing things. “How long have you been up?” he rasps, looking up at the kitchen clock. “God, it’s seven. What’s the matter with you?”

"Have a cookie. Your father is a genius," Eames says, ignoring his son’s sour mood, and driven by profound love for his family and an epic sugar rush, wraps the tree in lights, plugs the cord into the socket, and watches as the little bulbs come to life. 

When he turns around, Arthur is forcing cookies into Max and Ravi’s hands even though they’ve just woken and look like they barely understand where they are.

"Thank you," Ravi murmurs and bites into a chocolate chip cookies. "Mm..this is really good," he says, waving it in the air.

"I told you!" Eames shouts from the living room.

Arthur eyes him suspiciously. “No more for you. You’re going to get diabetes.” The omega ignores his pout and looks at Max. “Patrick and I have to pick up some last-minute stuff at the mall. Do you need anything?”

Max chews thoughtfully on a gingerbread man. “Yeah, a couple things. I’ll go with you guys.”

Arthur nods and points at Ravi. “You. Guard the cookies from him,” he instructs, nodding at Eames, who is still pouting in the living room.

"You have my word," Ravi responds, and the traitor looks serious about his new job.

***

Patrick and Edward’s son, Peter, is also visiting from school, and so he and Ed come over before the omegas leave for the mall. Eames enviously watches as the neighbors enjoy Arthur’s treats, and when he notices Ravi sending him a warning gaze, Eames mutters, “You know I don’t  _have_ to let you see my boy, right?”

Ravi grins slowly. “Nice try. No cookies.”

After the omegas leave, they watch some (American) football on the TV, and Eames forgets about the cookies when he and Ed relax by making disparaging remarks about the bastardisation of rugby. 

"I like American football," Ravi says.

Eames shakes his head sadly. “If your uncle heard you right now, mate. He’d die of a broken heart.”

Jack and Rose emerge from the boys’ room later in the morning, and Rose waves half-heartedly when she sees them splayed out on the couch.

"Hey, Rose," Peter says immediately, the poor boy filled with a sudden burst of energy.

"Hey," she responds, distracted as she tries to navigate through the rows of baking trays in the kitchen. "Is everyone aware dad went crazy?"

Eames smirks and calls from the couch. “They’re all little droplets from heaven. Eat some for me. Arthur is being a fascist and won’t let me.”

"That just means you were eating too much again," Rose says, and deliberately makes eye contact with him when she sinks her teeth into one of the cookies Eames didn’t get a chance to try: something that looks like a macaroon and is probably delicious.

Jack disappears into his room, and when he reemerges, he’s dressed in some sweats and a university sweatshirt. He’s clutching a football. “Hey, Pete. Wanna go throw the ball around?”

Peter takes one last longing look at Rose, and then nods. “Um, sure,” he says, and they exit through the front door.

Rose disappears soon after—probably to spend an hour in the bathroom doing her grooming routine that Eames doesn’t pretend to understand, and he’s a wise man, so he never asks his daughter what she gets up to in there. He knows plucking and makeup rituals are involved, but frankly he’s too spooked to inquire about them.

That leaves the remaining alphas watching the game. Ed is being very quiet, but that’s not unusual for his fellow Brit, who reminds Eames of some of the lads he used to know in England, if they were bred with Don Draper from  _Mad Men_.

He’s a bloke who, like Arthur, enjoys wearing suits, and probably thinks the slacks and polo shirt he’s wearing now constitutes “dressing down.” Ed is a buttoned-up version of Eames’ old mates—less crass, more polite, and generally very reserved. But even for Ed, he’s being quiet, but it’s a masculine moment, so Eames doesn’t want to ask about feelings and emotions.

"Say," Ed says finally, and Eames glances over to him. He notices the Brit look at Ravi, a bit uneasily, and only then does it occur to him that perhaps Ed really _does_ have something on his mind—something private, and he doesn’t want to share it in front of Ravi.

"S’all right, mate," Eames says encouragingly, nodding at Ravi. "He’s family."

Ravi probably tries not to show it, but his face brightens a little at that statement.

"It’s nothing," Ed laughs, a bit self-consciously, shaking his head. "Just…wanted to ask you, since you’re married to Arthur…if something was…well,  _normal_  isn’t the right word, I suppose,” he stammers, and when Eames stares at him in confusion, Ed laughs again. “It’s nothing. It’s just, Pat did something really wild.”

Now, Eames is a normal bloke, and he isn’t immune to certain base weaknesses, including a preference for shameless gossip, so he visibly lights up at this news. “Oh yes?” he asks, cheeky tone in full effect. “And what was this wild thing little Patrick did?”

Ed smirks, and pauses, and Eames and Ravi grow very still like they’re afraid the other alpha will spook and scatter if they make any sudden movements. 

Finally, Ed leans forward, braces his elbows on his thighs, and lowers his voice conspiratorially. “I came home the other night, and he was wearing this little robe, which isn’t unusual for him, but then…” Ed pauses, and glances down the hallway, maybe checking to make sure Rose is still in the bathroom. He looks back to Eames and Ravi. “ _Then_ , he asks me to go into the bedroom, so I do, and he slips out of the robe.”

Eames’ brows raise and he smiles slowly. It’s rather charming Ed thinks this is scandalous news, but he remains silent, humoring his friend. Meanwhile, Ravi looks very invested in the story, which he supposes is a good thing. He doesn’t know what he’d do if Ravi seemed to consider the story vanilla—probably expire from heart failure.

"But here’s the weird part," Ed continues. "He tells me to lay down and grip the headboard, and not move. Like…he was totally in control. I’ve never in my life heard of an omega doing that, have you?"

Ravi shakes his head sympathetically, but neither of them look judgmental. Rather, Ravi and Ed look like they’ve just had a close encounter with an extraterrestrial entity—as if their tiny alpha minds cannot begin to contemplate all the strange majesties of life.

Eames slowly narrows his gaze as he processes this information. Weirdly, it all sounds vaguely familiar. Of course,  _he_  knows a little omega quite capable of being bossy and assertive in bed, and something—right down to the detail of gripping the broad and not letting go—sounds hauntingly familiar.

Then he remembers Arthur’s spontaneous trip to Patrick’s to teach him self-defense. He wonders what else his mate got up to while he was over there, and suddenly he’s totally convinced Arthur shared some crib notes with the neighbor omega.

 _Bloody Arthur._ It’s like his mate has taken up the cause to slowly corrupt all of the neighborhood omegas. Eames idly wonders if he has plans to form an entire army of saucy omegas in order to conquer the alpha-ruled world. It really wouldn’t surprise him.

"Eames?" Ed asks, interrupting his thoughts. "Have you ever heard of an omega doing that?"

Eames blinks slowly and then shrugs. “What’s it matter, mate? Did you have a good time?”

Ed laughs because the answer is obvious. “It was mad. But yes, it was great.”

"So there you go. Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, my mum always said."

"I doubt your mum was talking about this stuff," Ravi says, grinning.

"True, but who cares if an omega doesn’t act like an omega? It keeps things interesting, I say," Eames concludes, leaving it at that. 

There’s no need to share personal details of Arthur’s behavior in the bedroom. And besides, Eames would never do that. 

After all, he’s a gentleman.

***

When they’re at the mall, Max hurries off on his own almost immediately because he’s apparently put off all of his holiday shopping for a single day, and he murmurs something about a sale, and then vanishes, leaving Arthur and Patrick to their own devices.

Arthur has done his major shopping, but he picks up little odds and ends for stocking stuffers, and candy canes because Eames will absolutely throw a  _fit_ if they have Christmas without candy canes, and then he spots a lingerie shop, and pulls Patrick into the store by the elbow.

“ _Arthur_ ,” Pat hisses, eyes wide with alarm as he looks around frantically. “We shouldn’t be here,” he whispers.

Arthur grins and shrugs. “Why not?” he asks casually as he starts flipping through a rack of red teddies. 

"Because we’re… _unaccompanied_ ,” Pat says, gazing around the store and shrinking a bit when he spots a couple of alphas shopping—probably picking out garments for their mates. Arthur rolls his eyes at the use of that word “unaccompanied,” mostly because he hasn’t heard it since he was a little boy, and was being schooled on proper etiquette for omegas.

Technically speaking, omegas shouldn’t go into any kind of sexually-charged environment unaccompanied because it gives alphas the wrong idea that they’re single and unmated, but Arthur has never adhered to that silly rule. Any alpha can clearly smell the fact that, not only is he mated, but he’s had  _three_ babies. And if they still insist on pressing the matter, he’ll break their windpipe.

"Well, if anyone bothers you, just tell me, and I’ll drop ‘em," he says, winking at Pat, and then grinning wickedly when the omega gapes at him. "Now, come on. Pick something out for Edward."

“ _What_?” Pat whisper-screams, following him around the store, and then staring in horror at a big bin of thongs. “No, Arthur. Absolutely not. Eddie would die if he knew I came here by myself.”

Arthur shakes his head as he starts leafing through the underwear. “Just like he _died_ when you surprised him last week, right?” he asks innocently, smiling when he holds up a red thong towards Pat. “Come on. Don’t my ideas always work?”

Pat eyes him, and then the thong, skeptically. Tentatively, he reaches out and grips the fabric, though he keeps eyeing the underwear likes it’s some exotic creature he’s never seen before. “I guess,” he murmurs shyly. Then, he furrows his brow and holds up the thong to inspect it closer. “You really think Eddie would like it if I wear this?”

Arthur has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Pat, if you wear that, he’ll do whatever you want.”

***

They end up getting a couple items each, and as they’re exiting the store, nearly run straight into Max, who is struggling to hold his overabundance of bags.

Max stares at Arthur in surprise, and then looks behind them, furrows his brow, and looks down at the telltale black bags.

"Uh, hey," he says, and Arthur responds articulately by furiously blushing.

Patrick smiles brightly, sensing an opportunity for revenge. “We got a couple things,” he says, and ignores the murderous look Arthur sends his way. “You know, for the boys.”

Max seems to be having trouble processing this information because he simply stares at Patrick, then the bags, and looks at Arthur again.

"Um," Arthur says.

"Just some underwear and nighties," Patrick continues, laughing, until Arthur snags him by the arm and physically pulls him away from Max.

Max follows them silently towards the exit, and through the parking lot, and doesn’t speak until he’s seated in the back of the car, and Arthur is slowly navigating them out of the lot and back towards the main road. 

"Your husband likes that stuff?" he asks finally—to Patrick.

Pat glances back at him. “Well, I don’t know yet. But probably! He likes everything else your dad has suggested,” he says, grinning brightly again.

Arthur cringes until he hears Max speak: “How come you never take me shopping?”

Arthur glances at his son’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Max actually looks _upset_. “Because I thought you’d be mortified,” he responds honestly.

Max rolls his eyes. “I know you and dad have sex. I’ve known that since I was, like, six,” he responds, with not a little contempt.

Patrick dissolves into giggling again.

"Well, I mean…of course we can go shopping…whenever you like," Arthur says, only stammering a little bit. Max nods, seemingly content, but something needles at Arthur until he adds: "And, if you ever have questions, or whatever…I mean, about Ravi…you can call me, Max."

He can tell Patrick is trying to behave himself now because he realizes the moment has transformed from light and fun to something more sober, and Arthur locks gazes with Max in the mirror fleetingly before his son nods, and says softly: “Thanks.”

Arthur looks back to the road, but the next time he glances at the mirror, he sees Max smiling.


	23. The football game incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The football game incident.

While they’re all home for the holidays, Jack suggests they check out their old high school’s final football game before winter break. He figures it could be quality bonding time for the siblings, since so much of their time at the school centered around the field and the game. Jack’s former team is playing their biggest rival, the Panthers, who have been their school’s main opponent for about a decade. 

One of Jack’s fondest memories is when they faced the Panthers at state, and he threw an eighty-four yard pass to a receiver to score the winning touchdown.

He still remembers the stadium erupting, and the chaos of his team rushing forward, and picking him up, and how proud Arthur and Eames had looked. Max had been so happy he cried, and Jack couldn’t stop hugging him, partially because he harbored the absurd fear that the large football players who bustled around them would crush his little brother.

Rose, who was dating a linebacker at the time, climbed her boyfriend’s shoulders, and taunted the other team so loudly, and so profanely, that Jack briefly worried they’d get penalized for unsportsmanlike conduct. But he could hardly blame her. The quarterback of the other team had spent the weeks leading up to the game taunting Jack in the local media, and Rose had sat silently, seething, listening to this stranger besmirch her brother. He decided to let her enjoy their vengeance.

Those few moments after they won state are seared into his memory. He remembers everything from the way his fathers clung to each other, and Arthur looked when he smiled at Eames—to the smell of the grass—to the scarf Max wore with the blue and green cross-stitching, and how the material felt when it scratched against his jaw.

Jack wants to revisit that memory with his siblings, so he’s a little annoyed when Ravi tags along.

Of course, it makes sense. Max and Ravi are pretty serious—might even get married one day, but still, a selfish part of him wants to sit with his brother and sister, and talk to Max, because he doesn’t really talk to him a lot these days. They live hundreds of miles away from each other, whereas before Max was on the other side of their room, always accessible, always willing to listen to Jack’s hopes and fears.

Most annoyingly, Ravi sits  _between_  him and Max, so he has to lean forward to see his brother. It’s a little thing, and Rose is an entertaining enough bench neighbor, as she immediately reverts back to a feisty junior, and starts trash-talking the Panthers, but the Ravi situation still bothers Jack. 

He’s glad Ravi is clearly taking care of his brother, but perhaps irrationally, he feels as though he’s been replaced. Max doesn’t run to Jack anymore when he has a problem, or someone is bothering him. He has Ravi for that stuff now. And sure, that’s a positive thing, but Jack secretly doubts Ravi will ever be able to fully fill his shoes.

Basically, he’s sulking, but he tells himself it’s allowed, and not weird, because it’s about Max. And he and Max are supposed to be partners in crime forever. Even when they get married and have babies, they’re supposed to go back to normal when they’re together, and right now, stupid Ravi is preventing that.

Rose notices him glancing over to the couple and elbows him (none too gently) in the ribs. When he glares at her, she smirks in response. “Whatchya thinking?” she asks, and he knows instantly that Rose has already read his mind.

"Nothing," he grumbles and looks back out at the field.

"Awww, is Jacky sad?" she teases, resting her head on his shoulder in that odd, magic way of hers that always results in Jack not being able to stay mad at her.

He chuckles. “No, Jacky isn’t sad.”

But he is. A little.

***

Ravi goes to fetch some drinks and snacks for the group, and when he returns, he sits on the  _other_ side of Max. He has no idea if the other alpha correctly read the situation, and responded accordingly, but Jack smiles when he sees Max bundled up in his pea coat, wearing the same blue and green scarf, moving closer to him.

"Hey stranger," Max jokes and bumps him gently with his shoulder. "Remember the last time we were all here?"

Jack grins. “Yeah, vaguely.”

Max laughs, his cheeks red from the cold. “ _Vaguely_ ,” he repeats teasingly. “I still brag about that game to my friends.”

He glances at his brother. “Really?”

When he looks over to Max again, his younger brother is nodding (and shivering a little.) Max always gets cold very easily.

"Want my jacket?" Ravi asks, leaning over. 

Max smiles at him and shakes his head. “I’m okay. Thanks.” He turns his attention back to Jack to finish his thought: “Yeah, I tell everyone you’re a star quarterback at college now, and everyone knows your name, and they’re like, ‘Oh my God,  _that_ ’ _s_ your brother?’”

Jack rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “Whatever.”

"I’m serious!" Max says, laughing, which in turn makes Jack laugh.

And it’s nice. It’s nice to know Max is proud of him, and his brother still thinks about him, and also that they can still be this way together—even though they don’t share a room, and Max has another alpha in his life now.

They talk about the game, and about their respective college experiences briefly, and Ravi, to his credit, keeps quiet and enjoys the game. Rose occasionally shouts something terrible at the opposing team, and the row in front of them turns around in a mixture of shock, annoyance, and a little fear.

Eventually, Max has to excuse himself so he can go walk around, and hopefully get his circulation going again so he doesn’t freeze to death in the second half of the game. Ravi volunteers to go with him, but Max dismisses the idea. “I’ll just be a few minutes,” he says with a smile, and then he’s gone.

Ravi scoots a bit closer, and starts talking game logistics, which is a language Jack happens to be fluid in. After a while, he remembers why he likes Ravi. He’s smart, funny, and knows his football. When Rose screams again, the other alpha smirks. “Bloody hell, she’s not playing around, is she?”

Jack snickers. “You’ve no idea.”

***

The Bulldogs have a comfortable lead over the Panthers, which naturally pleases Jack, but his mind begins to wander, and just when he’s about to question aloud where Max has gone to, Ravi’s phone buzzes with a new text message.

He squints at the screen, frowns, and immediately stands. “Max says some bloke is bothering him. I’ll be right back,” and then he turns to leave.

Jack furrows his brow and leaps up. “Wait, dude. I’m going with you,” and they run down the metal steps towards the landing.

Ravi leads them to the parking lot—just outside the entrance—where they find Max standing, arms folded defensively across his chest, as he glowers at a visibly drunk alpha. 

"Problem?" Jack asks immediately, moving to stand in front of Max.

"It’s okay," Max says. "He’s just drunk. He wouldn’t let me go back inside."

The alpha is big—taller and broader than both Jack and Ravi—and he sways unsteadily on his feet. “Who’re you?” he snorts, staring down at Jack.

"I’m his brother," he answers, and then imagines all the different ways he can take out this idiot.

Ravi stands slightly to the side, eyeing the drunkard like he’s a scientific formula to be solved.

"M’just talkin’ to him," the alpha says, swaying forward, and Jack instinctively throws back an arm to shield Max behind him. "I said hello, and you were—he was very rude. He wouldn’t talk to me. M’just being friendly."

"Maybe he didn’t walk to talk to you," Ravi interjects, perfectly mild-mannered about it.

"Who the fuck are  _you_?” the alpha snarls, turning to address Ravi.

Jack can practically feel Max tense up behind him. “He’s no one. I didn’t say hello because I don’t want to talk to you, dummy.”

He smirks.  _Fucking Max_. He’s going to shoot off his mouth to: A) protect Ravi, and B) because he knows Jack would rather get his face beaten in than let anyone hurt Max. 

Sure enough, the wasted alpha winds up to punch unthinkingly—at Jack, perhaps hoping to remove him so he can get to Max—but before he can even think to react, Ravi kicks the back of the stranger’s knee, and the alpha yelps, collapsing to the pavement. It’s a remarkably simple self-defense manoeuvre—a focused blow to wreak maximum havoc in a controlled way. 

He can’t help thinking Arthur would approve.

Jack watches, slack-jawed, as Ravi then kneels on the bloke’s back and grabs his hair, pressing the alpha’s cheek to the cold ground. “Now, say you’re sorry to my mate,” he says calmly.

When the alpha shouts something that sounds very much like, “Fuck off!” Ravi presses against his crown until the alpha groans in response.

"Ravi, stop," Max says from behind Jack, but he notes the omega doesn’t actually move to stop him.

"Say you’re sorry and you’ve been very rude."

Silence. Then, begrudgingly, a muffled reply: “M’sorry I was…rude.”

Ravi looks up at them and smirks. “Now, say sorry to Jack.”

"Whothefuck is Jack??"

He looks down at the sad display of an alpha. “I’m Jack, asshole.”

"Oh," the drunk replies—sad and defeated. "Sorry Jack."

Ravi looks at him, and they share a moment where they smirk in mutual recognition—right before the alpha vomits all over the ground, and Ravi leaps off him like he’s just been electrocuted. 

"Sick!" Max yelps, racing back towards the bleachers, and Jack and Ravi follow, looking at each other and laughing.

***

Afterwards, when they get home from the game, Eames is splayed out on the couch as he has been for the better part of a week, happily alternating between eating, napping, and getting his hair stroked by Arthur.

"How was it?" he asks, and Jack nudges his feet until his father grunts and moves so he can sit down.

Rose, having already been filled in on the details of the parking lot confrontation, laughs in response to the question, shakes her head, and walks to the bathroom.

"Good," Jack says lightly, noncommittally, until he’s sure Max and Ravi have gone into their room and closed the door, and no one is eavesdropping. Only then does he lean over and whisper to his father. "Dude, Ravi just totally faced some random alpha at the game."

Eames blinks slowly at him. “You’re joking. Our Ravi?”

Jack smirks. “ _Our_ Ravi. The scientist. This douchebag was harassing Max, and he kicked out his leg, and then kneeled on him until he apologized.”

Eames grins slowly. “Good for him. What did the alpha do?”

Before his father can finish the question, Jack is already laughing. “Fucking puked. Everywhere.”

Eames bursts out laughing and pinches the bridge of his nose. Then he looks back at Jack. “And where the bloody hell were you?”

"I was  _there_. I just didn’t get a chance to do anything,” he says, flicking Eames’ leg lightly.

Eames winces in an exaggerated way. “Easy. Your father has crippled me with sweets again.” He’s quiet for a moment, gazing into mid-air, but eventually he looks back to Jack. “He’s a good bloke.”

Jack, of course, instantly knows who he’s referring to. He nods slowly. “Yeah. He is.”

"He’s good for Max," Eames adds, emphasizing that point for his benefit.

But he already knows this. He’s known it since the first time he saw Max look at Ravi with the same shining love with which Arthur watches Eames. And he’s happy for his brother. Max deserves that. He deserves an alpha who worships the ground he walks on.

He gazes at his father, who looks the same as always—but maybe a little greyer and wiser. He feels wiser these days too.

"I know."


	24. Edward and Patrick's origins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Edward and Patrick's origins

The thing about dreams is sometimes they don’t pan out, but that’s not necessarily a bad thing because the dream can change into something else—something unexpected, and that’s good too. 

Patrick grows up in Georgia with dreams of moving west to become an actor. In high school, he’s the lead in a few plays, and everyone says he is definitely talented, so in what should be his senior year, Patrick announces to his parents that he’s dropping out to pursue his thespian goals. His parents, who are about as old school as white southerners can get, and had always wanted him to marry rich and stay at home raising pups, are less than enthusiastic about the idea.

Mama still styles her hair bleach blonde and big, like she did in her pageant days, and she always wears white because she says she’s a proper southern lady, and proper southern ladies always wear white. She fans herself even though it’s not that hot outside because she’s exasperated and needs something to do with her hands.

"My sweet, sweet treasure," she sighs, shaking her head and gazing at Patrick’s father, who is standing by the grand staircase in the main foyer. "I don’t know why you’d want to live in the stink and filth of the city."

Patrick and his mom are speaking in the parlour, and he looks over to his father, who remains silent and unhelpful, lips pursed and gaze downcast. 

"It’s my dream, mama," he says helplessly because, honestly, that’s all he’s got.

"What about my dreams?" she says, voice trembling. "I want grandchildren."

Patrick sighs and looks to his father, who this time, stares back at him. “For God’s sake, Mary. He’s seventeen. If he has to sow his wild oats, let’ im,” he points at Patrick. “But you don’t come cryin’ to us if things blow up in your face.”

Patrick shakes his head. “I won’t,” he says.

And he doesn’t.

***

Patrick knows almost immediately he’s made a terrible mistake. Los Angeles is loud and dirty, and he hates going on casting auditions where the alpha directors and producers leer at him and ask him inappropriate questions sometimes.

He speaks with other omega actors who say it’s just part of the game, and he knows for a fact some of them take suppressants so they can sleep their way into landing roles. But he doesn’t do that. He doesn’t  _want_ to do that.

He’s broke, and too afraid to write home for money (his father’s words still echo in his head,) so he gets a job as a waiter at  _Heat_ , a popular gentleman’s club where omegas dance on-stage. It’s fairly tame by most strip club standards, and the omegas never get fully naked, but they strip down to their underwear, and Patrick’s uniform isn’t too revealing, thankfully: a black vest and matching trousers. Working at  _Heat_ is basically as modest as he can remain and still make decent tips. Any higher tips, and he’d be expected to take off his clothes and that is  _not_ happening, thank you very much. He’d rather climb onto a bus and ride back to Georgia with his tail tucked between his legs.

He doesn’t like waiting tables, but at least the money is decent enough so he’s able to afford the rent for his tiny apartment located above a grocery store. His room always smells like potatoes for some reason, but it’s a roof over his head, and Patrick is thankful for that.

The customers are always alphas, and most of the time they’re too preoccupied with the dancers on stage to bother Patrick, but sometimes they get very drunk and grab him, or say lewd things, and he’s expected to smile and laugh it off. His manager explicitly said one time: “Pat, you’re supposed to give them a good time,” which apparently doesn’t permit him to slap an alpha if they pinch his bottom.

He takes suppressants, hoping he won’t smell as good to the alphas, but it doesn’t help.

So instead, he just smiles, laughs, and hurries away, hoping it won’t happen again.

One evening, a large group of alphas comes in and occupy a corner booth, and Patrick inwardly groans because that’s his section, and historically, large group of alphas always drink too much and get too rowdy, and harass him.

But then he remembers, if he’s good and smiles, maybe they’ll tip him well, so he grabs his pad and pen and walks over. 

"Hi, gentlemen. Welcome to  _Heat_ ,” he starts off, smiling brightly in the way alphas like. He’s careful not to look any of them directly in the eye, though. Alphas don’t like when omegas are too forward.

"Weeeell, hello to you too. Aren’t you pretty?" one of the alphas—a tall, blond man, shouts over the music pulsating from the stage.

Patrick smiles politely and continues: “We have a list of cocktails here,” he says, reaching over to pluck the drink menu off the center of the table, which is when the blond alpha catches his hand and holds it to his chest.

"Wait, I want to hear more about you. What’s your name?"

His heart hammers in his chest when the stranger touches him, but he smiles amicably. “Patrick.”

"Jesus, mate. Leave him alone. He’s just doing his job," one of the other alphas says. He has dark hair and broad shoulders. Handsome, Patrick idly registers. He’s distracted and not thinking clearly, so he looks the other alpha in the eye as he says, "Sorry about him. He’s already drunk."

The dark-haired alpha grins, and Patrick’s lips twitch into a faint smile, but this time it’s genuine.

The blond alpha snorts. “Fuck off,” and then smiles up at Patrick. “We’re here celebrating with my friend Ed here,” he says, nodding to the handsome alpha with the dark hair seated in the middle of the booth. “He just signed on with our law firm.”

"Congratulations," Patrick says sweetly, and slips his hand out of the blond alpha’s grasp.

"You ever heard of us? Steinway, Herbert, and Cahill?" the blond asks.

The other alpha, Ed, laughs loudly. “Why would he have heard of us? We’re not the Beatles.”

Patrick can’t help himself. He smiles again, and when he looks up, Ed is watching him, grinning. “What can I get you gentlemen?” he asks, switching back to business mode.

***

When Patrick carries the tray of drinks to the table, he notices Ed has switched seats with his colleagues so he’s seated at the end of the booth now, closer to Patrick when he approaches. He tries not to think about it too deeply as he places the drinks down in front of the respective alphas, who are now thoroughly distracted by the omega dancing on-stage. Every set of eyes is upon the flexible Brazilian dancer, except for Ed, who smiles up at him when Patrick sets down his scotch.

"Cheers, love," he says, and Patrick smiles in response. He’s always liked British accents.

"You from England?" he asks, because his manager is always saying he should talk to the clients more. It makes them feel special, and they’re more inclined to tip if they feel as though they have a personal rapport with the staff.

"London," Ed says, smiling brightly, and Patrick again notices he really is very handsome. If this is the man he has to make idle chitchat with, he really can’t count himself unlucky. "Are you from the south?" he asks, grinning.

Patrick smiles, and is thankful for the dim lighting because he knows he’s probably blushing. “Can you hear my accent?”

"Only a little," Ed says, laughing. "It’s cute."

He laughs and shakes his head. “Thanks. Well, let me know if you need anything, all right?” he nods at the table, but his gaze is fixated on Ed when he asks the question, and when he’s walking away from the table, for some reason, he glances back over his shoulder and sees Ed watching him walk away.

His face is burning by the time he slips behind the bar to make sure everything is fully stocked. There are a few people seated at the counter, and the bartender sees to them, as Patrick quickly takes inventory. 

When he turns around, Ed is seated at the bar. Patrick smiles slowly. “Ditched your friends?” he asks teasingly.

The alpha is dressed in a crisp white dress shirt he’s rolled to the elbows and a dark tie, and he looks like a movie star straight out of the 1940s with his hair combed back that way. “I wanted to apologize,” Ed says, picking up his glass, which is running low on scotch. 

Patrick fetches the bottle of Johnny Walker and tops off the alpha. “Why’s that?” he asks lightly, and it’s nice speaking with Ed back here because they’re farther away from the stage, and they don’t have to scream over the music.

"Well, my friend was rude to you before," he sighs, rolling his eyes. "But also, because I called you cute."

Patrick grins, putting the bottle away. When he returns to the bar, he braces his hands against the counter. “And was that rude too?”

Ed frowns at his glass and then shrugs slowly. “Not rude. Just inaccurate. I hate that word, don’t you? ‘Cute’? It’s so…vague,” he says, waving his hand through the air disdainfully, as if chasing away the non-descriptive adjective. “It’s like how Americans call everything ‘awesome’.”

Pat laughs. This is, by far, the most interesting conversation he’s had at  _Heat_ —possibly in Los Angeles, too. 

Ed grins, pleased at the reaction. “I call puppies cute, you know? Babies too!” he smiles, fuelled by the scotch and Patrick’s attention. “But I shouldn’t have called _you_ cute, Patrick,” he finishes, now grave in tone.

"What should you have called me?" Patrick asks, smiling, and he knows he should excuse himself and tend to his other tables, but he doesn’t want to leave Ed just yet.

The alpha looks at him seriously, thoughtfully contemplating. “Beautiful,” he decides finally, and he sounds so sincere that Patrick’s heart immediately rockets into his throat. 

This is really, really inappropriate. He doesn’t care if it’s going to get him a good tip—he doesn’t want to lead on Ed like this. But then a thought pops into his head: why does it have to be leading him on? Ed is handsome, interesting, and thoughtful. Why shouldn’t he be interested in an alpha like that?

_Because mama will drop dead of a heart attack if she knows where I met him_ , Patrick thinks, of course immediately jumping ahead to the moment he introduces the alpha to his parents because Patrick  _always_ level-jumps like that.

"Thank you," he murmurs finally, aware the alpha is watching him, waiting for a response.

"Now I’ve made you uncomfortable," Ed notices, smiling self-deprecatingly.

"No, no," Patrick quickly answers, and he’s not sure why, but he  _really_ doesn’t want to hurt or disappoint Ed, an alpha he’s known for about fifteen minutes. “That was…very nice of you,” he says, smiling. “But I see your friends gesturing frantically, and I should go see if they need something,” he says, pointing over to the table where the tall blond is waving his arms in the air.

Ed laughs. “Fair enough.”

***

"How old are you?" Ed asks once he’s returned to the bar, and when Patrick answers with a playful glare, he innocently adds: "Just making conversation."

"Uh-huh," he says, grinning. "I’m twenty-one," which is the lie he was hired based upon, and he has a fake ID to back up the claim.

Ed nearly snorts scotch through his nose. “Go on, pull the other one,” he laughs.

Patrick smiles slowly and leans forward. “Okay, but this stays between us, all right?”

The alpha looks very serious as he nods solemnly. 

"Seventeen," Pat whispers, only after he’s sure no one is eavesdropping.

Ed’s eyes widen, and he unthinkingly murmurs, “Bloody hell. I’m a cradle-robber.” 

Patrick laughs and smiles brightly. “Why? How old are you?”

"Thirty," the alpha grumbles, as if it pains him to confess the truth.

The omega shrugs. “You don’t look it.”

And now Ed is engaged again. His brows arch and he grins. “No? How old do I look?”

He laughs and shakes his head. “ _Younger_. Don’t fish for compliments,” he instructs, refilling Ed’s glass when he notices the ice cubes sitting at the bottom, barren and abandoned.

Ed hums thoughtfully as he sips the scotch, then eyes the moist rim once it’s resting on the counter in front of him. “So you’re a student?”

Patrick picks up a rag and wipes off the counter, just so he’ll look busy if the manager walks by. “Nope. Actor,” he says.

Ed makes an  _ahhh_ sound, like the universe suddenly revealed its origin to him. “That makes sense. I can see that, yeah,” he says, almost to himself, but he’s looking at Patrick and smiling. “I can see you on-screen.” 

Patrick laughs because, honestly, the thought of being cast in an actual movie someone like Ed might see him in is so farcical that he might as well imagine one day owning a unicorn. “Whatever,” he snorts.

"No, honestly, I can," Ed says, framing his hands like a film screen and holding them up so Patrick is centered in the middle. "Gorgeous," he adds, drunkenly, but sincerely. 

Something about Ed’s praise warms Patrick from head-to-toe, and he finds himself smiling genuinely around the man—something he usually has to force around other customers.

The moment is shattered when the tall blond alpha shouts across the room: “When you’re done with your boyfriend, Ed, we’re still over here!”

Ed laughs as he slowly stands, clutching his glass. “He’s just jealous you like me and not him,” he adds, winking at Patrick before heading back to the table.

***

At the end of the night, when the alphas leave, there is a ridiculously high tip scrawled at the bottom of the bill, along with a note on a cocktail napkin: “Can I take you out sometime?” follow by a phone number, and a signature: “Ed.”

Patrick quickly pockets the note, and keeps it on his bedside table for a couple days before he works up the courage to call the number. He sits on the edge of his bed, which is just a mattress that rests in the corner of the room, and listens to the other end ring.

He reminds himself he can always hang up if need be.

"Hello?" 

The second he hears Ed’s voice, the memory of the night they met comes rushing back to him and he feels warm all over again. “Hi…um…it’s Pat—er, Patrick? We met a couple nights ago—” he stammers.

"Patrick!" the alpha declares, and he sounds so elated that he instantly smiles in response. "I’ve been thinking about you. Does this mean I get to take you out?"

Patrick likes the way he phrases the question, and his face hurts from grinning. “Sure, that could be fun.”

"Smashing. I thought for sure Tim ruined my chances. I’m sorry about him, again."

He laughs quietly into the cellphone’s receiver. “Not your fault.”

They make plans for that weekend, and Patrick changes his outfit three times before he finds something that he deems both attractive and not  _too_ dressy: dark, pressed slacks and a blue button-up shirt that compliments the color of his eyes. 

His jaw nearly hits the sidewalk when Ed pulls up in a  _sick_ car—make and model unknown to Patrick, who has never been a big car buff, but it’s black and sleek, and looks expensive as hell, and Ed is super slick when he parks the car, walks around to the other side, and holds the door open for him like they’re in a movie or something.

"Thanks," Patrick says, and Ed winks at him.

"You look lovely," the alpha comments as he navigates along LA’s streets.

"You too," he comments shyly, but really Ed does look  _really_ good, once again dressed in a suit that probably cost thousands of dollars. Suddenly, he feels a bit underdressed. “We’re not going anywhere fancy, right? I didn’t really dress the part.”

"You look gorgeous, and  _of course_  we’re going somewhere fancy,” Ed comments playfully, like any other option would be laughable. “I’m taking you out, after all.”

Patrick smiles and gazes out the passenger window. He feels special and giddy, and is already glad he said yes to Ed.

***

The restaurant is crazy nice: sparkly chandeliers, gold trimmings, and no prices on the menu, which means everything is really expensive. They nearly don’t let Patrick in because he’s not wearing a tie, but Ed says something to the maitre d’, and then they’re escorted to a private table at the back of the room by huge windows that look out onto a lush garden.

"I’m really sorry," Patrick whispers self-consciously. "I do have ties," he says because he feels it’s important Edward knows this fact. "I just didn’t know…"

"It’s fine," Ed says, smiling breezily at him. "Look at this view. Isn’t it pretty?"

Distracted, Patrick looks out at the gardens and finds himself smiling. It is really beautiful. He hadn’t realized how much he missed things like grass and nature until he moved to the city, which is all hot pavement and smog. “Yeah,” he says quietly, and then silently prays Ed knows French because he can’t tell what anything on the menu means.

Ed speaks perfect French, of course, and Patrick goes a little glassy-eyed as he watches the alpha communicate effortlessly with their waiter. He really is ridiculously sexy.

Dinner is nice. Patrick probably drinks too much wine because he’s nervous, but Ed is a perfect gentleman and asks all about his life, and where he comes from. For his part, Patrick learns Ed comes from a posh pedigree in England, and he silently files that away to rub in mama’s face later when she snootily comments about Patrick dating an Englishman. 

As they enjoy chatting after dessert, Ed reaches across the table and touches his hand, twining only their pinkies, which is such a sweet and timid gesture that Patrick instantly smiles. He’s not used to an alpha approaching him this way—with naive hope and optimism. 

Afterwards, they walks around the gardens out back, and Patrick is a little unsteady on his feet, so Ed wraps his arm around him, and the omega leans against his solid side. It’s really a very nice space with lush plant-life, and even a small babbling brook. He’s surprised all of this can be located secretly in an overpopulated city like LA, but then again, he supposes rich people have all kinds of secret oases in all different places.

He’s a little cold, so Ed slips off his jacket, and wraps it around him when they’re standing underneath an arch of roses, which is kind of a perfect place for a first kiss. So he approves when Ed gently tightens the lapels around him, and then takes him by the shoulders, and pulls him forward carefully.

Patrick hasn’t ever done this before, so he’s timid and a bit passive when Ed kisses him, but he catches on quickly, and he can tell by the soft sighs of approval that he’s doing it right. When Ed parts his lips and his tongue slips forth, he splays his hands across the alpha’s chest, and moans softly. Ed apparently likes that because he slides his arms around Patrick and holds him securely, and it feels so nice to be totally surrounded by the alpha’s warmth and scent that Patrick finds he doesn’t what it to end.

"Gosh," Patrick says breathlessly when they separate, and then immediately regrets it because he sounds like a dumb hillbilly, and he doesn’t want to ruin the perfect moment.

But Ed smiles fondly and laughs, hugging him tightly, so he doesn’t seem to mind.

***

They go on three more dates in the next three consecutive weekends to fancy places Patrick never dreamed he’d go now that he no longer relies on his parents’ bank accounts. Edward sends him flowers sometimes, with little love notes that Patrick reads repeatedly and keeps in a shoe box. 

After their third date, Edward parks in front of Patrick’s building and walks him upstairs. They kiss in front of his door, and when Edward pins him against it, and gently nudges his thigh between the omega’s legs, Patrick can feel against his hip that the alpha is hard. He parts with a soft gasp and gazes up at him. “Eddie…I can’t,” he whispers, for the first time ever sincerely regretting that he decided long ago that he didn’t want to sleep with anyone until he was married.

"Of course not," Edward says quietly, tenderly, and kisses his brow. "We won’t. Not yet," and he’s not even mad, which makes Patrick’s chest swell with affection. Edward would never, ever pressure him into doing something he doesn’t want to do.

They say goodnight, and Edward kisses his hand.

***

Work seems to stress the alpha, but whenever Patrick calls, he always sighs and says, “I’m so glad to hear your voice,” which makes him feel special and important.

Things are getting serious between them, and he can tell the alpha doesn’t like him working at  _Heat_. One time, when they’re talking on the phone, Patrick mentions he has an upcoming shift, and Eddie grunts unhappily. “I hate that you work there.”

"I know," Patrick says softly.

"Well, not for much longer," Edward says, and he isn’t quite sure what the alpha means, but he doesn’t want to pry.

One day, he receives an envelope from Fed-Ex, and inside there’s a check from Edward that will cover his monthly rent, and then some—enough left over for groceries and anything else Patrick will need.

He immediately calls the alpha’s office. “I can’t accept this, Eddie” he says, eyeing the check disbelievingly.

"Poppet, I insist," Edward responds, and in the background he hears the alpha shuffling through papers. His voice is muffled when he speaks to someone else, then he returns a moment later. "I want you to quit that place. I’m looking after you now."

It’s a nice thought, but Patrick is a little wary. They’re not mated or married, and if he quits his job, his manager is going to be angry and never hire him back if Edward leaves him and he’s financially unstable again.

"I don’t know," he says quietly.

Edward sighs into the phone. “Do you trust me?”

"Yes," Patrick answers quickly because it’s the truth.

"Good. Give your two weeks," Edward responds.

So Patrick does.

***

He misses Edward all the time, especially after quitting because he has all of this time to sit around and do nothing but think about the alpha. When he brings this up to him, Edward sighs sadly. “I know, poppet. It’s not forever, though. Things are in the works.”

Patrick doesn’t know what that means, but he trusts.

The checks keep coming, and he continues to see Edward, and they are undeniably in love, so Patrick calls his parents to tell them the good news.

"And this man has proposed to you?" his mother asks immediately, unimpressed.

"Not yet, mama, but he’s taking care of me."

"How?"

So Patrick tells her: paying his rent, taking him to dinner.

His mother laughs cruelly, like he’s being a dumb child. “You’re a kept omega, my love. Not a mate. He could be married, for all you know.”

Patrick scowls. “He’s not married, mama.”

She sighs, clearly exasperated with her star-gazing son. “When are you coming home?”

He frowns, regretting his decision to call home at all. “I’m not. I’m going to live with Eddie.”

"He doesn’t want to live with you, my sweet treasure. That’s why he’s paying for you to live elsewhere."

His mother has a way of making the world seem like a big, scary place. But he knows it isn’t true. Once he’s hung up, and can no longer hear her voice, and then he sees Edward’s face, he knows none of her poisonous words are accurate. And anyway, she doesn’t really do it to be mean. She just wants Patrick to move home because she’s scared for him. The world oftentimes chews up omegas and spits them out, and she would protect him forever if she could.

Edward invites him over to his gorgeous apartment with the cityscape view, and gradually, over the course of a few weeks, Patrick slowly moves in until he barely goes back to visit his little dingy place at all. The alpha lets him have the master bed, even though Patrick insists on sleeping in the guest room, and every morning he wakes to the curtains automatically opening to allow the morning sunlight to stream into the room.

Finally, Patrick stops going back to his old home entirely. All his clothes are in Edward’s closet, and they stop referring to it as the alpha’s place. Now, Edward calls it “home,” or, “our place.” Everything is  _theirs_  now, and Patrick is just beginning to wonder if this is how city folk work—live together informally and never marry—and he decides, yes, this must be what’s normal now when he’s preparing dinner for them one night, and Edward gets down on his knee and proposes to him in the kitchen.

It’s a gorgeous little ring lined with diamonds and Patrick’s immediate reaction is to burst out crying because Edward managed to surprise him completely. They’re not out at a fancy dinner at a candlelit table, and his apron is covered in tomato juice, and he did not  _at all_ expect this, but it’s perfect. It’s perfect because they’re together, and Edward looks a little nervous he might say no—like Patrick is someone so special that he’s not worthy of him.

"I’ve been saving my pay checks, and I have enough for a wedding, and a house, and a honeymoon too, if that’s what you want," he blathers, watching as Patrick accepts the box slowly to see the ring. "I want to marry you, Pat. I want to have kids with you."

"Eddie," he cries softly, leaning down to cup his face and kiss him. 

The alpha stands and slips the ring onto his finger. “You’ll have me then?”

Patrick smiles at the absurdity of that question. “My mom is going to freak,” he laughs. “Yes, yes,” he whispers over and over, leaning up to kiss him.

***

His mom totally freaks.

"Oh my God, Albert!" she screeches over the phone, calling his father into the room. Then she covers the mouthpiece, but he can still her muffled voice. "Patrick has been abducted by some dirty old Englishman!"

Patrick rolls his eyes and waits for his father’s voice to fill his ear. “What’s that, Patty? What’s this I hear about an Englishman?”

"His name is  _Edward_ , as I told mama, and he’s not kidnapping me. We’re getting married.”

"Is that right?" his father cries, sounding genuinely pleased. 

His response makes Patrick smile. “Yes, in June, and I wanted to invite you.”

"He says he’s getting married in June," Albert says to Mary, and she audibly gasps. 

There’s a brief scuffle as she tears the phone away from his father. “Absolutely not.  _No_ ,” she replies emphatically. “My sweet treasure, if you insist on going through with this, you cannot schedule a wedding for June in the south. Our guests will positively  _melt_ from the heat.”

Patrick naively counters, “Oh, mama, no. We’re not having the wedding in Georgia.”

Which is followed by eerie silence. 

Mary takes a deep breath. “Now, listen to me, Patrick John Bowen. I will not have my only child, my  _baby boy_ , married to some Englishman in the  _west_ , do you understand me? Your great aunt Sarah would die from shame.”

He’s not sure how it happens, but somehow during negotiations, the wedding moves from California to Georgia, and from June to April. 

He must look shellshocked by the time he gets off the phone because, when he wanders from the office, Edward looks up from the paper and frowns in concern at him. “Everything all right, poppet?”

Patrick sighs: “I apologize in advance for mama.”

***

Because his mother bumped the date of the wedding, it means they have to rush the planning stages. Mary insists Patrick and Edward fly out to Georgia, since, as she points out, their house will serve as the operation base. His parents have an enormous property—100 acres that extend across the planes—lovingly groomed landscaping giving way to lush foliage including ancient tress lined with moss.

Mary plans to set up a pretty arch for the alter, and split the seating into two sections on either side of the aisle—for the alpha and omega’s families, respectively.

Patrick has to admit, the initial plans sound pretty decent, but he’s still worried about Edward meeting his family. He’s so worried, in fact, that he’s begun to chew his nails again, a bad habit he hasn’t resorted to since he was a little boy. Edward is constantly having to gently grip his wrist and bring his hand away from his mouth to remind him to stop.

He does this for the millionth time when they’re on the plane on the way to Atlanta. “Sorry,” Patrick mumbles shyly, smiling at the alpha. “I’m just…worried.”

"Don’t be," Edward says, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "I don’t care if your parents are odd. Lord knows, mine are," he says, wincing. "You know how old money is."

Patrick has no idea how old money English people are, but if they’re anything like old money American people, they’re in a lot of trouble.

***

"Oh my Lord. Is this him?! Let me see you. Well, my, my, my, he  _is_ handsome, isn’t he? I see why you chose this one, Patrick,” mama says in a single breathless greeting when they walk through the front door and the family maid, Josephine, takes their bags.

Patrick watches his mother fuss over Edward, brushing across his shoulders and gripping his chin, and Edward, bless him, stands there and smiles disarmingly. “I’m so glad to finally meet you,” he says charmingly, and even kisses mama’s hand, which she loves.

"You’ll make beautiful babies," she says, like this is a normal way to greet a total stranger, and escorts Edward into the parlour where she interrogates him further.

The alpha handles himself beautifully throughout the ordeal, and Patrick is filled with pride when he observes his future husband conduct himself. Mama can overwhelm even the strongest alpha, but he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest. Maybe it’s all that practice negotiating with high-powered attorneys.

Naturally, mama doesn’t let them sleep in the same room—not so close to the wedding—so Patrick says goodnight to Edward every night when they’re awkwardly standing in the middle of the upstairs hallway. The alpha always looks amused when Patrick nervously prattles on about everything mama is planning, and how nervous he is, and all the little things going wrong, like the invitations being in the wrong font, and then eventually the alpha cups his face, and kisses him.

Then Patrick forgets to be nervous, and he melts into the embrace.

Josephine catches them one time and shouts: “Ah, ah, ah! Split that up! Mrs. Bowen will have my hide if she knew I let you two neck in the hallway! All the saints in heaven, give me strength, I cannot deal with these children,” she says as she disappears down the hallway again, her voice tapering off into an indistinct mutter. 

Patrick smiles up at Edward. “Good night.”

The alpha grins as he reaches back to turn the knob of his door, and opens it slowly. “Good night, poppet.”

***

Patrick pushes back on certain details. For example, he absolutely refuses to wear the seersucker suit his mother originally selects for him to wear walking down the aisle. They negotiate, and ultimately decide on a beautiful dark blue suit. “But you are wearing a corsage, or I will haunt you after I’m dead, Patrick,” she says, and he nods in agreement.

Mama wants great big bouquets of white magnolias to line the outer perimeter of the ceremony, and Patrick agrees because those are his favourite flowers and he knows they’ll look gorgeous.

The reception will be held in the house, specifically the parlour, because that’s southern tradition and Mary is determined to make this a southern affair. She invites distant relatives Patrick hasn’t seen since he was a little boy, or ever, and insists it’s the proper thing to do.

He stops caring that she’s very obviously hijacked the planning stages because soon he’ll be married to Edward, and that’s all he wants. 

***

The final night before they’re to be married, Patrick and Edward stand in the hallway, the omega reclined back against the door as he smiles slowly at Edward. “Tomorrow I’ll be your husband,” he says quietly.

The alpha stands in front of him, gazing at Patrick with eyes so filled with love that it makes him feel a little breathless. “You’re happy?” he asks, eyes bright, lips curled in a smile.

Patrick nods silently. He’s  _so_ happy. He’s not going to be able to sleep tonight. And he can’t stop thinking about what happens after the wedding is over. That’s when their life really starts. 

And he feels warm all over when he thinks about their wedding night, when his parents will leave them alone in the house so they can consummate the union. He wants that moment to be here very, very badly. He’s never seen Edward without his clothes on, but he’s imagined it many times. And even though he has a very active imagination, he has a feeling he’s not doing the alpha any justice.

"You love me?" Patrick asks softly, already knowing the answer, but wanting to hear Edward’s voice.

"I love you more than anything," the alpha replies genuinely.

They kiss slowly and lazily for a long time, Patrick gripping the front of Edward’s shirt, the alpha’s hands large and comforting against his back. He wants to go to bed with Edward now, and throw custom and tradition out the window, but a soft voice in the back of his mind tells him to wait—just one more night, and then they can tear each other apart.

"Night," he whispers against Edward’s lips, delighting in the fact that the alpha looks drunk from kissing and smelling him.

Edward’s hands slide from his back, to his hips, where he squeezes gently. “Night,” he murmurs, licking his lips and eyeing Patrick none-too-innocently before the omega disappears behind the door.

***

Patrick is so nervous he can barely breathe. 

Mama refuses to let him look out the back windows to see the people waiting in the seats. He hasn’t even met Edward’s family yet because their flight got delayed, and they just got in this morning, barely making it in time for the ceremony.

It seems strange to be married in front of strangers, but he doesn’t really have a say in the matter.

Mary cools him with an ornate Asian fan and gently dabs at his brow with a silk handkerchief. “There, there, my sweet treasure. It will all be over soon.”

Patrick nods and swallows thickly. He wants to see Edward. Once he sees the alpha, he’ll feel better and less terrified.

There’s an orchestra playing in the backyard, and Edward is already out there, waiting under the arch with the minister, but it’s not time for Patrick yet, and all he wants to do is kick open the back door, and run outside so they can be that much closer to starting their life together.

"Remember, shoulders back, walk tall, no slouching," mama instructs, and Patrick nods, straightening his posture.

Finally,  _finally_ , the back doors open, and it’s time. He’s shaking, but simply hopes it doesn’t show, when he descend the back steps. He briefly bites his bottom lip so he won’t cry when he sees Edward standing under the arch, waiting for him. His father gently squeezes his elbow and helps guide him along the way, and he’s grateful because he thinks he might have fainted without a little support.

The music plays them down the aisle, and he has tunnel vision, suddenly unaware and uncaring about the other bodies around them. His father shakes Edward’s hand, and then it’s just the two of them standing there, gazing at each other.

And he’ll have to remember to thank mama later because the moment really is perfect. It’s not too hot, and he can smell the earth and Edward every time he pulls a breath through his nose to calm the rapid beating of his heart. Edward steadily grips his hands, and Patrick looks at his handsome face, which he’s seen a thousand times before, but holds a special significance now because he’ll replay this moment countless times in the future.

Eddie squeezes his hands gently and suddenly looks a little amused. “Pat,” he says softly, and when he comes out of his daze, he notices the minister is looking at him expectantly.

"Um..can you repeat that?" he asks quietly, and flushes when he hears the guests chuckle.

The alpha smiles fondly and encouragingly winks, and this time Patrick remembers to listen when the minister asks him to repeat the oath. He says it back, word-for-word, without stumbling, and then Edward repeats it too.

He smiles brightly as the minister wraps things up, declares them wed, and doesn’t even wait for the minister to finish saying, “you may kiss the—” before he launches himself at Eddie, throws his arms around his neck, and kisses him soundly. The guests whoop in approval, and the alpha catches him in his arms, lifting him off the ground.

Distantly, he hears the minister say: “I present to you, Edward and Patrick Alden,” and more applause.

***

All he wants to do is race upstairs with Eddie, but they have to greet all the guests, and he has to meet his husband’s family. They’re exactly as formal and chilly as he expected, but the good thing about WASPs is that they don’t ask nosy questions like:  _where did the two of you meet_? They just assume Patrick is from old money, and Edward is from old money, so they must have met in a highly respectable way involving cocktails and dowries.

Edward is being terribly distracting, keeping his hand glued to Patrick’s lower back and stroking slowly. It’s subtle enough where no one seems to notice except Patrick, who is very, very aware of his fingers, and occasionally trembles a little against the alpha’s side.

He’s excited, and afraid he’s going to mess the inside of his suit, but mercifully, the evening is winding down, and the guests have begun to trickle out of the house, leaving the couple with gifts and well-wishes. Finally, it’s just them and Patrick’s parents, and his mama hugs him tightly and kisses him on each cheek. “My beautiful Patrick,” she whispers, tears brimming in her eyes. “I’m so happy for you both,” she says, pointing at Edward, “You take care of my boy.”

"I will," Edward says, smiling, and Patrick hugs his father, and then they watch as his parents leave the house, the door clicking shut behind them.

Patrick stands there, gazing at Edward, and the tension between them is palpable. He feels so hot that he wants to tear off his clothes. He stopped taking his suppressants that morning, and didn’t think he’d feel an immediate effect, but he does. The air tastes sharper because Edward’s scent hangs on it. “Eddie,” he warns softly, unsure of what he’s asking for, but the alpha is already in front of him, gripping him, and picking him up. 

"I’ve got you," he whispers, carrying him easily up the stairs and into the bedroom that’s been made up for them.

The smell of detergent overwhelms him when he hits the comforter and the scent billows up around his crown. His gaze is already blackening at the edges as he reaches out for the alpha, pulling him on top him so they can kiss properly. Edward kisses him roughly, but it feels good, and he experiments with nipping at his lips, which the alpha seems to like because he groans and nearly tears his clothes off.

Patrick is terrified and more turned on than he’s ever been in his life, and he’s so flustered that he can barely remember how to move, but luckily the alpha takes over, stripping him and leaving him bare on the sheets. He can’t see, but he can taste  _everything_ , and that somehow includes the alpha’s arousal. 

He instinctively rolls onto his stomach and shoves his rear into the air. Eddie gropes between his cheeks, and Patrick feels that he’s  _really_ wet, and the moisture runs down his thighs. It’s alarming how fast everything is happening, but he doesn’t feel afraid. Instead, he  _wants_ —he wants Eddie to take him, and it’s doesn’t matter that they’re moving at lightning pace—it’s still not fast enough.

"Eddie," he whimpers, and the alpha shushes him gently, smoothing a hand down the length of his spine.

"You’re so beautiful," he hears his husband whisper before he pushes the head inside. 

It feels strange and alien, and Patrick doesn’t like it at first, but he stays quiet until the alpha pushes forward. Then, he keens in alarm and pain, scrambling to grip the sheets, and it seems like the push is unending until the alpha mercifully bottoms out. He sobs, and Edward murmurs sympathetically, draped across his back, kissing the side of his face.

"Hurts," he whimpers, and Eddie strokes the back of his neck, holding him in place.

"I know, my love. It’ll get better," he whispers, nuzzling Patrick’s cheek and kissing the skin when a few tears slip from the corner of his eye.

He keeps his jaw locked when Eddie begins to move because it still burns and hurts, but he wants to be good, and he wants to make it good for the alpha. But all of a sudden, the alpha changes the angle and thrusts sharply, and he hits some spot inside that makes Patrick tremble and gush. He cries out loudly, and the added moisture makes things easier, and after a few more strokes, he continues to moan softly.

Edward is emboldened by the display, and carefully sinks his teeth into the side of Patrick’s neck, marking him, as his hips slap against the omega’s rear. He arches his back, lips falling open as he moans helplessly, and he must still be begging because the alpha makes a soothing noise again, belied by the grip on the back of the omega’s neck and the rough thrust of his hips.

It seems like they rut for ages, but it’s not more than his body can handle. Any time he feels like he needs Eddie to stop, the alpha finds that spot inside him again, and he shakes apart under his grip, and wets the sheets again. This rhythm permits the alpha to fuck him for a long time—Patrick isn’t sure how long it is—but he comes, and then lays there, moaning and pliant for the alpha, before he gets hard again, and comes a second time.

Edward presses his lips to Patrick’s ear and calls him lovely and tight, which makes him unreasonably shy considering the alpha currently has his cock buried in his ass, but he blushes hotly, and moans in response.

He’s not sure what’s happening when Edward thrusts deeply into him and then stops pumping his hips, and he groans in confusion when the alpha pulls him up the mattress, and arranges them so the alpha is spooning him from behind. Any confusion flies from his mind when he feels the alpha swelling. 

"Eddie.." he whispers fearfully, but the alpha grips him powerfully, pinning him in place.

"Don’t move," he instructs authoritatively, and Patrick obeys without question.

But his thighs quiver when he tries to keep them open, naively thinking that will help alleviate the pressure of the knot, but it doesn’t. Patrick doesn’t know what’s going on, or if the swelling will ever stop, and he nervously watches his abdomen, half expecting to see the outline of the alpha’s cock pressing against the skin.

"What is it?" he whispers nervously, barely able to breathe from the pressure.

Eddie shushes him, and it soon becomes clear why: the alpha is coming inside him in hot, thick waves. Patrick forgets about the pressure and moans loudly, eyes pinched shut as he focused on the feeling of being claimed.

It’s too much, and most of it ends up pouring out of him, and bleeding between them, but Patrick is too blissed-out on endorphins to care. He lays still, savouring the sensation, until the alpha runs a finger pad over his nipple and flicks the pert bud playfully. “Stop,” he murmurs, but he’s smiling.

"M’allowed," Eddie responds stubbornly. "You’re my husband now."

Patrick laughs, and it feels so good to be with the alpha like this—locked together, bonded, forever belonging to one another.

***

Patrick becomes pregnant very quickly. They’ve only just bought the house in California, and moved in, when he wakes up one morning feeling sick to his stomach. Edward gets a pregnancy test, and sure enough, it tests positive.

He’s eighteen, and terrified, but Eddie is contagiously ecstatic, so Patrick forgets his fear, and laughs as the alpha grabs him, picks him up, and spins him in the middle of the living room.

He loses the baby early in the second week of pregnancy.

Mama calls and tries to comfort him. “This happened to me too, baby. It’s not your fault,” she says, but she’s crying, and it upsets Patrick, so he hands the phone back to Edward.

He knows he hasn’t done anything wrong, but he’s cripplingly sad, and lays in bed for many days. Eddie is constantly at his side, and even calls out of work sick—something he never does, even when he really  _is_ sick and should stay home. He waits on the omega hand and foot, and tends to his every need. 

Though he never forgets, Patrick slowly emerges from his depression.

He wants things to go back to normal, so he’s deeply grateful when Eddie comes to bed naked one night, and helps Patrick pull off his pajamas. “We’ll try again,” he whispers, kissing Patrick’s wet cheeks when he starts to cry. “We’ll make another baby.”

They do, but Patrick’s body can’t handle it, and it doesn’t make it past the six-week mark.

He’s nineteen when he visits the doctor who tells him he may be too slight to carry a baby.

"Your hips are much too narrow," the doctor says gravely, pointing to a chart of acceptable hip sizes for omegas. "This is the minimum width, and you are…here," she says, pointing well below the red line.

She braces him for the possibility that he’ll never give birth.

Patrick is unexpectedly gutted by the news. He feels like he’s failed, not only as an omega, but as Edward’s partner. Eddie deserves babies—lots of them, and his body is betraying them both by not even allowing him to birth a single child.

"I don’t care," Eddie lies to him, holding him from behind in bed.

"Liar," he replies, sniffling.

"Pat, I don’t. Not as long as I have you," he says, gently nuzzling the omega.

The worst part is, Patrick knows that’s the truth. Eddie deserves a family, but he’s chosen him as his mate, and that may mean living a life without children, but the alpha will never abandon him. 

Eventually, they move on, and he begins to accept that this is it for them, and that’s okay. They’re in love, and Edward treats him like a prince, and he’s very, very lucky.

Which is why it completely bowls them over when Patrick becomes pregnant for a  _third_ time, and it sticks. 

Slowly, the baby grows inside him, and he develops a little potbelly that Eddie can’t stop cooing at and touching. The alpha takes thousands of pictures of him, and Patrick rolls his eyes, pretending like it’s some great ordeal to smile and pose.

Mama descends upon the house like a force of nature, but for once, Patrick is glad to have her with him, especially when Edward has to go to work during the day. She dotes on him, feeding him oodles of calories until he’s too fat to climb off the couch on his own.

"My baby is having a baby," she says countless times, for no apparent reason, apparently to no one.

It’s a few days before his due date when Patrick perches on the edge of the bed and looks at Edward nervously. “I’m scared the baby…” he can’t say  _might die_ , so instead he amends: “won’t make it.”

Edward sits beside him and cradles his hands, kissing them. “Don’t stress. Stress will make it so much harder for you.”

Patrick nods tentatively, though he knows it’s true. “You’ll be with me, right?”

"See what happens if they try to take me away," Edward says playfully, leaning forward to nip at Patrick’s throat.

***

Luckily, no one tries to take Edward away, and he’s able to clutch Patrick’s hand through the surgery.

Peter is born moments later: eight pounds, just a little bit above average, and he’s so beautiful Patrick bursts into tears the moment he sees the baby. “He’s got dark hair, like you,” he whispers happily, touching the little tuft at the top of the baby’s crown.

The alpha sits on the edge of the bed, face glowing with unrepentant joy. “Blue eyes, though. Got that from you, Pat,” he says affectionately, squeezing the omega’s leg.

"I love him so much," he whispers, smiling down at the little wrinkly bundle, who is beautiful, and named Peter, and  _theirs_.

He’s not even mad when Edward snaps a photo, even though he probably looks like hell after hours of labor. “You’re happy?” the alpha asks needlessly because he’s been smiling like a lunatic ever since the nurses placed Peter in his arms.

But he knows what the man means: happy  _beyond_ the baby, happy with their life.

He’s never going to be an actor, and he doesn’t want that life anymore. He hated the city and working at  _Heat_. He wants to live far away from the noise and the people, and he wants to build a quiet little nest inside their perfect home.

Patricks wants Eddie, and their baby, and he wants to watch Peter grow.

That, in his opinion, sounds perfect.

"I’m so happy, Eddie," he whispers, and they lean over Peter to kiss.

 

 


	25. More on Max and Ravi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More on Max and Ravi

Arthur is in the middle of cleaning the kitchen when the phone rings. He tugs off his rubber gloves and throws them in the sink, and grabs the phone from its cradle on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, dad?" Max answers, and a wide smile breaks across Arthur’s face. Max dutifully calls once a week, and they’ve already had their weekly update, so it’s a nice surprise to hear from him so soon.

"Hey you. What’s up?" he asks, plucking a stack of mail off the counter so he can flit through it and separate the wheat from the chaff. Arthur is a multitasker, and can easily handle a conversation with his son while he tosses junk mail into the trash. He frowns at a men’s clothing catalogue Eames must have ordered. The smiling male model on the cover is dressed in something teal-colored and hideous.

The lid of the trashcan snaps closed after Arthur tosses it into the bin.

"Um…" Max starts, and his tone causes Arthur to pause. His youngest is clearly uncomfortable, maybe even upset, about something. 

Arthur’s brow furrows. “What’s wrong?” His grip on the phone tightens and he stares intensely at the wall. Already, he’s imagining everything he’ll need to do to shrink the distance between himself and his son: order plane tickets, pack quickly, rent a car. It’s early in the day. He can easily make it to Max before nightfall.

"Oh, no. It’s nothing serious. Really.  _Honestly_ ,” Max stresses, perhaps detecting Arthur switching into predatory mode. “I just…I have kind of an embarrassing question, and I didn’t know who else to call.”

Arthur’s shoulders relax minutely, and his grip slackens on the phone. “Of course,” he says on an exhale. 

Silence follows, but Arthur doesn’t press his son. After eighteen years, he’s learned that it doesn’t help to rush Max, and the omega speaks only when he’s good and ready. “It’s a…you know, sexual reproductive question.”

Arthur presses his lips together and tries not to smile. Over Christmas break, he’d told Max to call him anytime he has a question along these lines, but the parental part of his brain assumed Max would never follow through. He’s secretly pleased to be contradicted. “Go on,” he encourages gently.

There’s a shuffling noise, and Arthur imagines his son pacing nervously, trying to work up the courage to articulate his question. He can’t help but smile fondly at the imagined scene. “Well…you know how some…um…wetness is normal?”

He again has to suppress the desire to laugh. Arthur reminds himself that he’s not talking to Pat—it’s not like he can be blunt and crass about sex. This is Max, an omega who is even more inexperienced than his neighbor. “Yes, wetness during sex is normal,” Arthur says encouragingly, in what he hopes is a very responsible parental tone.

"Right, but…" Max murmurs, trailing off, and the sound of rustling emanates through the phone again until his son is finished fiddling with the temporary distraction. "What about, like…a lot of wetness?"

Arthur covers his mouth, hiding his smile. Even though Max can’t see him, he’s convinced his son will detect his amusement somehow. If he reveals how pleased the confession makes him, Max will flush with embarrassment, hang up, and refuse to confess anything to his father ever again. But Arthur is pleased because this is the best “problem” an omega could ever wish to have. “That’s a good thing, baby. It means you’re compatible with Ravi.”

Admittedly, Arthur was very shy about gushing even when he’d been with Eames for a while, but the alpha insistently and consistently expressed joy in the wake of Arthur’s biological inclination. Eventually, Eames’ positivity became contagious, and Arthur forgot to be ashamed when he’d wet the sheets. Instead, it became a euphoric exclamation point on their lovemaking, and something he began to look forward to because it makes Eames happy, and in turn, provides him with contentment.

"Really?" Max asks quietly.

Arthur smiles again. “Yup, I swear. You’re not broken.”

Max laughs in response. “Well, that’s great to hear.”

"And, might I add," Arthur says, feeling slightly emboldened. "Kudos to Ravi for a job well done."

Max groans loudly. “Oh my God. Shut up.  _Please_.”

Arthur smile transforms into a full-blown grin. “What?” he asks, feigning innocence. “Excess wetness is a biological response, but it doesn’t just happen _every_ time, you know. It means he’s doing a bang up job—” Arthur says, stopping suddenly when he looks up and sees Eames standing by the counter, staring at him unblinkingly. “Uh…but listen, baby. I gotta go. I’ll talk to you soon, okay?” he says rapidly, and hangs up the phone before Max can answer.

When he looks back at Eames, the alpha is still standing exactly as before, staring at him. Arthur opens his mouth to speak, but Eames holds up his hand. “Don’t. I don’t what to know,” he mumbles, brow furrowed as he stares at the mound of mail. “Where’s my catalogue?”

***

Max looks at his home screen and sees the phone has disconnected. He shrugs, tucks the cellphone into his back pocket, and eyes the clock on the wall. Ravi will be home in an hour, which gives him time to prepare dinner. For once, his school work load is light, so he can spare a little extra time to making them a proper meal. 

He pulls out all their pots and pans and sets out making an elaborate curry based off a recipe Eames taught him. He knows it’s important to let the curry simmer for a while to release the full potential of the flavors, and he’s just covered the big pot on top of the stove with the finished product when Ravi walks upstairs.

"Hey, Priya," Ravi greets, smiling brightly when he sees Max by the stove. "Aren’t you a lovely sight? Cooking for us?" he asks, wrapping his arms around Max’s waist and burying his face against the crook of his neck to kiss him.

Max smiles and leans his head to the side slightly to give him room, wooden spoon gripped in his right hand, and held over the counter so he doesn’t drip any of the curry on the floor. “I think you’ll like it,” he says, turning a bit so he can kiss Ravi’s mouth.

"Mm, sure I will," he replies, squinting at the pots. "It already smells wonderful," but the alpha’s next movement seems to belie his previous statement because he reaches around Max and turns the burner off. 

Max frowns and sets down the spoon, but when he turns to ask Ravi why he did that, he catches a mischievous glint in his mate’s eyes that makes him pause and smile. “What’re you up to?” he asks, dimples on full display.

Ravi crowds him a bit so he can wrap his arms around Max’s waist. “Dinner can wait,” he murmurs, leaning down to tenderly kiss the omega. “I’ve been thinking about you all day.”

The confession makes Max flush, right up to the tips of his ears, but Ravi seems to enjoy that too because he gazes at Max so fondly that the omega really has no choice but to smile back at him. “I’ve…thought about you too,” he responds shyly, briefly thinking back to his conversation with Arthur. 

They linger in the kitchen for a bit, kissing and touching each other innocently. Max tenderly cradles Ravi’s face, stroking the slight stubble on his cheeks, and touching his soft curls, while Ravi’s large hands cradle his back. Eventually, Max pulls away and looks at the alpha, eyes glassy and lips slightly swollen. 

"Bedroom?" Ravi rasps, and Max nods in response.

When they’re in the bedroom, Max quickly removes the teddybear he keeps propped up between their pillows. It’s one of the bears Eames gave him as a gift, but he doesn’t really think it’s appropriate to have it around right now. Ravi, to his great credit, doesn’t comment when Max quickly hides the teddy.

Max sits on the edge of the bed once the bear is hidden, and smiles up at Ravi, a little nervously. He knows it’s a ridiculous impulse, but the alpha still leaves him a little breathless, and he feels awkward sometimes even though Ravi has been nothing but good and kind towards him.

His mate smiles beautifully, and Max feels dazed as he gazes up at him. Ravi tilts his head up and kisses him again, and Max scoots back on the bed so the alpha can join him. They undress each other, which is nice and intimate, and gives him an opportunity to see Ravi naked—always a plus. For a scientist, Ravi is remarkably built, and Max automatically feels giddy when his mate is fully revealed.

"You’re hot," Max blurts out, then flushes in disbelief at his own silly comment.

Ravi, as always, is gracious and wonderful in response. He smiles brightly, moves closer to him, and Max instinctively moving onto his back. “Funny, I was just thinking the same about you,” he says, leaning down to kiss along the omega’s throat.

Max nearly snorts when he laughs. He still can’t get over someone like Ravi calling him hot. Max has never, ever considered himself anything accept reasonably attractive (and that’s only a very good day). He had acne when he was younger, and some of the boys in his class made fun of his long hair, so no one was wasting any ink penning odes to Max’s beauty. He’s not like Arthur: glamorous and confident. But Ravi calls him thinks like  _priya_ and  _lovely_ , and it leaves Max dizzy with joy.

His back arches from the bed as the alpha kisses a wet trail down his chest and across his belly, and he smirks when Ravi very deliberately avoids touching his cock. The alpha pauses between his thighs and looks up at him. “Can I try something?” he asks in the same tone he uses to discuss algorithms and scientific compounds.

Max arches a brow curiously, but he’s amused. “Sure,” he responds softly.

But he is  _not_ prepared for what happens next.

Ravi dips down suddenly, and Max feels something warm and wet—Ravi’s _tongue_ —against his entrance. He gasps loudly and tosses back his head, but he doesn’t tell the alpha to stop because, once he’s processed the shock and surprise, he realizes it also feels good. Ravi reaches up and grips his hand, guiding it down to his balls before Max catches on to what he wants him to do. Max cups his scrotum and lifts it slightly so the alpha has more room to work.

He hooks his legs over Ravi’s broad shoulders and moans loudly when the alpha pushes his tongue forward and laps inside. The alpha reaches up around Max’s hand and grips his cock to stroke it slowly in time with the rhythm of his tongue. “Oh my God,” Max pants. “Ravi…” he moans softly, half in warning, and half in a plea for the alpha to continue.

It feels good— _really_  good, but he senses the familiar pressure building inside of him, and he’s afraid the wetness is going to rush from him unexpectedly if his mate keeps this up. But Ravi seems to be enjoying himself too much to part from the omega because he moans happily from beneath Max’s legs, the vibrations travelling up the backs of his legs. Max runs the fingers on his free hand through Ravi’s thick curls, petting them affectionately, and then gripping them when the alpha begins to tongue fuck him with abandon. 

"Oh  _God_ ,” Max wails again, tugging Ravi’s hair maybe a little too roughly, but he can’t help it. He’s literally grabbing anything within reach for purchase. Max releases his balls and grips the headboard instead so his fingertips can strain against the wood. “Stop,” he gasps suddenly. “Fuck, stop, I’m gonna—”

But he can’t articulate the words in time. He comes, hard, across his stomach and the wetness rushes forth. Max cries out—practically screams—and he closes his eyes, too ashamed to see Ravi’s reaction when it happens. This has happened before, of course, but during sex, and not when Ravi was so close to the source of his embarrassment. 

The feeling of Ravi caressing his thighs coaxes him from his self-imposed punishment. When Max dares to peek down at the alpha, Ravi’s face is indeed wet, but he’s smiling brightly. “Well, that was a success, I’d say,” and his mate seems  _delighted_ , just as he returns from the lab after a night of successful experiments. 

Maybe there are some who would feel a little insulted if their mate approached them like a scientific formula, but Max’s analytical brain appreciates Ravi’s method. Ravi wouldn’t ever judge Max, just as he’d never judge an atom or molecule for not behaving as he desires. It’s not in his mate’s heart to be cruel or sanctimonious. In his brain, there was some equation that began with Max and added an unknown element, and resulted in Max having an incredible orgasm. Turns out, their unknown variable was Ravi eating him out like he was getting paid to do it.

"I’d say so, yeah," Max laughs breathlessly. When his gaze drifts south, he eyes his mate’s erection, which strains against the flat plane of Ravi’s lower abdomen. He shifts a little and reflexively wets his lips with the tip of his tongue. "Want you," he declares softly, pulling up his legs.

He’ll be oversensitive after coming so hard, and sex might push him just shy of pain, but he wants Ravi. He  _needs_ him.

The alpha is extremely eager to oblige after he wipes off his face, and ascends Max’s reclined figure, kissing his lips before positioning himself and thrusting into his wet heat. Max is more than ready for him, but he still cries out in surprise at the intrusion. But Ravi sets a quick pace, fucking him enthusiastically, and soon Max is moaning helplessly, and clinging to the alpha like his life depends on it. 

Every thrust touches the place deep inside him that throbs for his mate—that sets off another wave of wetness to makes Ravi’s passage easier for them both. Dimly, he registers that Arthur was right. He was built for Ravi to do this to him, and the thought serves as a huge turn on. 

Ravi’s hips slap against him, coaxing little surprised cries from him that the alpha swallows when he crushes their lips together. And they’re kissing right up until Ravi thrusts deep into him and starts to swell. They shift about so the alpha can spoon him and Max can lay in a relatively comfortable position until the inevitable pain of the knot ratchets up his spine.

"Jesus," Max moans softly, brow furrowed. He’s still dazed—from his orgasm, from the sex, from  _Ravi_.

The alpha kisses his temple, but he’s quiet because the knot hasn’t solidified yet. This part always makes Max feel powerful because he knows it’s his body that allows Ravi to find release. Yes, it hurts him every time until he feels like begging the alpha to pull out, even though that might seriously damage him, but afterwards, when Ravi comes, and diminishes to a sweaty, groaning mess, Max understands that omegas possess incredible power. 

Omegas are built to reduce the most powerful creatures, alphas, to pliant, sated partners. Without omegas, alphas would walk around pissed off all the time, and probably kill each other at will.

 _We keep the peace_ , he thinks smugly. And the wetness is part of that.

"Was that good?" Ravi asks softly, interrupting his thoughts. 

Max smiles slowly and grips the alpha’s hands when they rest on his stomach. Inside, the knot is in place, huge and hard, locking them together. “Felt so good,” he replies encouragingly. 

He feels Ravi smile against the back of his neck.

***

The next morning, Max stumbles into the bathroom in the early hours to get ready for class. He showers quickly, and wraps a towel around his waist. Then he brushes his teeth and opens the medicine cabinet and plucks his bottle of suppressants off the shelf. 

When he closes the cabinet and looks at his reflection, Max freezes.

He looks down at the bottle and feels his heart seize up in his chest. 

 _It’s Wednesday, right? No, Thursday. Shit_.

Max hurriedly opens the bottle and looks inside. Did he take his pill yesterday? He tries to remember by replaying the entire day. He remembers getting up, eating breakfast with Ravi, and…no, he didn’t take the pill, he’s sure of it.

Which is really bad because the suppressants double as birth control.

"Shit," he whispers. 

He dresses quickly, making sure to keep quiet so he doesn’t wake Ravi, finds his cellphone, and dials as he charges down the stairs.

"Hey, I need you to meet me at the pharmacy on the corner by MacGregor house," he rambles.

"Why? What’s up?" Helen answers.

"Just…be there in ten minutes."

***

"Oh my God. If you’re, like, pregnant, or whatever, can I be the aunt?" Helen asks earnestly as she gazes eagerly at him through her glasses, like she’s actually excited by the prospect.

"Shut up," Max mutters, wiping his sweaty palms on his jeans. His heart is thundering in his chest. "I’m not..I’m just…making sure," he says as he wanders down the aisle, eyeing all the omega pregnancy tests. He doesn’t know which one to get, and there’s no way in hell he’s calling Arthur to get his opinion.

Even though he’s downplaying the possibility, he can’t stop obsessively pondering what he’s going to do if the test comes back positive. He doesn’t know how he’s going to care for a baby and finish school, and he really wants his degree. He’s doing well in his classes, and he hates the idea of throwing all of that away because he was stupid and careless and forgot to take his suppressant.

"You should put a reminder on your phone to take the pill. Like, an alarm or something," Helen says casually as she plucks a box off the shelf and reads the back.

Max glares at her. “Yeah, thanks. I’ll do that.” Fat lot of good it does him right now, though.

"Will you keep it?" she asks.

Max is surprised at the question, and before he really thinks it through, he blurts out: “Of course.” Then, immediately afterwards, he realizes it’s true. Of course he’d keep the baby. It’s Ravi’s, after all, and Ravi is his mate. They’re going to start a family one day anyways, and he knows the alpha will do everything in his power to accommodate Max and the baby because he’s wonderful like that.

"You’re probably not pregnant," Helen says confidently, mostly because they’re not talking about her reproductive situation and it’s easy to be blasé about other people’s lives. "I’ll bet you’re not."

***

They end up getting six different pregnancy tests, just to be sure because Helen says sometimes they give false positives, and return to the apartment. Max trudges up the stairs, Helen trailing behind, and when he reaches the top of the stairs, Ravi is standing in the kitchen, dressed in his lab coat.

Max pauses in his steps and blinks in surprise at the alpha. It’s a quarter past nine, and Ravi should have left for work by now.

"Hey…" he says cautiously.

"I tried your phone. You didn’t answer," Ravi says in explanation, frowning at Max, and then looking down at the bag. "Where were you?"

Right. His phone. Max must have left it on silent, forgotten in his pocket, during the frenzied buying spree at the pharmacy. 

Helen lingers awkwardly behind him, but then clears her throat so Max and Ravi both look her way. “I’m…gonna go. Call me later, okay, Max?” she says, smiling tight-lipped at him and then waving half-heartedly at Ravi before fleeing down the stairs.

"Max, what’s going on?" Ravi asks, and now he looks worried, which just piles guilt on top of guilt, and causes Max’s stomach to tense up.

He sighs and lifts the bag a bit. “I…forgot to take my pill. I got some tests,” he mummers, hoping Ravi can piece together the rest and won’t make him say it aloud. He feels ashamed and embarrassed, like he’s messed up somehow. Millions of omegas manage to remember to take their pills every day, but he’s been so distracted lately it just slipped his mind, and now he might have ruined Ravi’s plans for the future.

Ravi’s brows raise slowly in surprise. “Oh…” he answers, staring at the bag, then looking back to Max. “Um…come on. I’ll help.”

***

Max first pees in a cup and then dips the sticks from the various tests into the liquid, and leaves them on the counter to ferment. Ravi helps by quietly unpacking the tests and handing them to Max, one-by-one.

Afterwards, Max walks into the kitchen, pauses by the table, and covers his face. This is not what he expected to be dealing with this morning.

Ravi comes up behind him and wraps his arms around the omega’s waist, which is an enormous relief in itself because Max had been harboring fears that his mate would be angry with him. 

"It’ll be okay," Ravi whispers, kissing his cheek. "We’ll be okay," he adds.

"I’m so stupid," Max sighs, resting his hands over Ravi’s. "I’m really sorry."

Ravi makes a tisking noise and steps back so he can turn Max around and grip his shoulders. “Look at me,” he whispers, and though he’s still busy sulking, Max does look up into his warm brown eyes. “I want to be with you forever, you know that, right?” he asks, searching Max’s gaze.

He finds himself smiling slowly because, for some reason, Ravi is the one who looks nervous, like he’s afraid Max might not know that or believe it. “Yeah, I know.”

"Well, then, this doesn’t change anything for us. We’ll have to juggle some things, but it’ll still be you and me, okay?" Ravi asks, his hands sliding up to cup Max’s face tenderly, and he leans forward to kiss the omega.

Max smiles against his mouth. “Okay,” he whispers.

***

The first test is negative, and then a minute later, all the other ones are too.

Max is so relieved he feels like dancing, but Ravi slowly sits down in the kitchen, so he instead sits across the alpha’s lap, wraps his arms around him, and buries his face against Ravi’s neck.

Max sighs loudly. “Jesus,” he whispers. “That scared me.”

He smiles and kisses the edge of the alpha’s jaw, and then pulls back to see his face. Before he can properly school his features, Max catches Ravi looking a little melancholy, though the alpha tries to hide the fact with a faint smile. 

He furrows his brow. “What’s wrong?”

Ravi slides his arms around Max’s waist and shakes his head. “Nothing, priya,” he says and kisses Max’s brow.

But, of course, he knows this is a lie. “Tell me,” he insists quietly.

The alpha’s gaze drops to the floor and he sighs deeply. “I just…visualized it, you know? I want to have that with you some day.”

Max can’t help but smile slowly at the confession. Here he’s been wringing his hands and worrying that Ravi would be angry, and instead the alpha had been _hopeful_. “We will have that…some day,” he says, easing forth to rest his brow against Ravi’s.

"I know," the alpha answers, and Max sees him smile. "You’ll make beautiful babies."

Max grins, feeling his face warm at the compliment. “If they look like you, that will be true.”

"They’ll look like us, that’s all that matters," Ravi says definitively and Max silently agrees. 

"You’re going to be a great dad," he adds softly, knowing in his heart that it’s true. He used to think no alpha could compare to his father, but he changed his mind after meeting Ravi. His mate is going to be strong, but fair—authoritative, but compassionate—just like Eames.

He can tell the words overwhelm Ravi because the alpha is quiet in response, and simply lifts his chin so they can kiss, which is really the only feedback Max needs.


	26. Arthur and Eames go into heat at the same time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames go into heat at the same time.

Arthur used to keep dream-share notes in his moleskin books, but these days, his record-keeping tracks his and Eames’ heat cycles. One day, his notes will also consist of the sprogs’ rut schedules, but they’re too young to worry about that stuff right now, so his attention is totally fixated on the alpha and himself.

He’s in the kitchen, examining his notes one morning when Eames approaches from behind and slides his arms around Arthur’s waist. The alpha is tall enough where he can comfortably rest his chin against Arthur’s shoulder, and he huffs when he sees what his mate it up to. “What’s the verdict then?” he asks in a low rumble, kissing Arthur’s neck while he’s there because he’s still Eames, and that means he’s permanently cheeky.

"DEFCON one," Arthur replies lightly, tapping the cap of his pen on the page to emphasize his point, where he’s circled a particular date in red ink.

As military men,  _DEFCON one_ is how they’ve been affectionately referring to when their heats line up and occur at the same time. But instead of nuclear weapons or gas attacks, their concerns involve a few mad days of near non-stop sex that has the potential to turn violent.

Eames hums in response, but Arthur can feel him tense a bit. Alphas can be incredibly violent when they’re in rut, and there have been stories of alphas accidentally killing their mates during sex. It’s a rare occurrence, but it happens, and Eames is a very strong alpha, so of course the thought always needles his mind. While Arthur isn’t exactly a helpless omega, during his heat, he is very vulnerable. 

Eames knows all this, and he worries constantly, but they’re careful, and thus far they haven’t had a problem.

"So we should make sleepover arrangements," Eames says eventually and Arthur nods a little. 

He turns away from the counter and his notes, and slides his arms around Eames’ neck so he can look his mate in the eye. “It’s going to be fine,” he says softly, so the kids won’t hear him. 

Their children don’t really know why these seemingly spontaneous sleepovers occur, but so far they haven’t asked questions. Jack is nine and thrilled any time he gets to go on an adventure anywhere that isn’t his home, and besides, he’s good friends with Peter, the boy across the street. Patrick and Edward will take the kids in for a few days, and in return, Arthur and Eames watch Peter when need be.

Eames’ gaze drifts across Arthur’s face thoughtfully, but he nods eventually. “Of course,” the alpha replies, but Arthur can hear the fear in his voice.

***

When the kids are safe and sound next door, Arthur and Eames return home, and the omega triple checks the schedule. If his calculations are correct, which they always are, Eames will start his heat first, but only by a few hours. 

"What do you do if I beg you to let me go?"

They’re standing in the bedroom, and Arthur watches Eames unbutton his shirt in preparation for the rut. Multiple glasses of water rest on the bedside table, which hopefully one of them will have the presence of mind to grab sometime during the heat. On rare occasion, they’ve gone a couple days without drinking water, but afterwards they’d experienced something akin to the world’s worst hangover, and their muscles remained cramped for several days afterwards. 

Arthur rolls his eyes. They’ve been over this a thousand times, and he knows the drill by heart, but he also realizes this is as much for Eames’ benefit as his own. His mate wants to make absolutely sure they’ve done everything in their power to ensure Arthur’s safety. “I don’t let you go,” he replies simply.

Eames nods as he folds his shirt and sets it on a nearby chair. “You keep the cuffs on me,” the alpha clarifies, and Arthur nods.

Eames’ heats normally aren’t severe enough to warrant the cuffs. When Arthur is in his right mind, he can handle the alpha’s ruts. The sex can get rough, but he honestly enjoys it. It’s when they’re both in heat that things get out of hand. Arthur’s pheromones set off Eames, who escalates from rough to violent. Thankfully, it only took some larger-than-usual bruising for them to wise up and start restraining Eames during  _DEFCON_.

Arthur slowly approaches his mate and runs his hands across his chest because he wants to, and because he’s hoping to distract Eames from obsessively running through the checklist. “I got it,” he says softly—teasingly. When he leans forward to kiss the alpha, Eames grips his hips, and relaxes long enough to sigh into the embrace. 

"Just worried, darling," he confesses when they part, but remain inches from each other. 

Arthur’s hands slide over Eames’ chest, up to the meaty, solid swells of his shoulders. His gaze follows the trail of his fingertips as they trace the loops of the alpha’s tattoos. “It’ll be fun,” he says, smiling in the secret, crooked way Eames seems to enjoy. “You’ll fuck me silly. We’ll have a ball.”

Eames smirks, and his eyes flash in a naughty, comfortingly familiar way. “I think I can manage that.”

***

When Eames is nude and laying supine, Arthur secures the padded handcuffs around his mate’s wrists.

"Tighter," Eames instructs, and Arthur frowns, but obeys, and clicks the cuffs a little snugger to his wrists until the padding is digging into the skin.

"Comfortable?" he asks.

Eames tugs roughly against the headboard, where the chain is looped through a gap in the wood, part of the decorative, ornate carving. The chain clanks loudly, but the headboard doesn’t even wobble. “It’ll hold,” he says, which doesn’t really answer Arthur’s question, but he lets it slide.

Straddling the alpha’s waist, he leans down and gently kisses his lips. “See you on the other side,” he says, smiling.

Eames looks less jovial as he gazes at Arthur’s face. “I love you,” he says seriously, and Arthur’s chest tightens.

He quietly answers: “I love you.”

***

Eames begins his heat an hour later. Arthur is nude by then, and he can almost immediately smell the difference when the alpha suddenly arches off the bed, pulls at his restraints, and growls. 

"Hey," he says softly, leaning over to examine his mate’s face. 

When Eames looks at him, his pupils are huge and he takes a deep breath through his nostrils, probably inhaling Arthur’s pheromones. 

"Shh," he hushes when Eames growls again, and rests his cool hand on the alpha’s burning brow. "I’m here," he says, even though he’s aware the Eames he knows is slipping away, and the alpha left behind doesn’t understand his words. 

Arthur climbs onto the bed and straddles the alpha’s waist. Beneath him, Eames’ cock is already hard and pressed to his stomach. 

According to his notes, he’s not due to begin his rut for a few more hours, but sometimes smelling Eames sets him off early, and already he feels a little lightheaded, and sensitive all over. When the alpha gulps for breath, and his stomach rises and falls between Arthur’s thighs, the sensation sends a tremor up his spine.

"You know who I am?" Arthur asks in a gentle tone, not wanting to upset Eames and cause him to thrash about and hurt himself.

The alpha watches him closely with large, black eyes. He bares his teeth and grunts, thrusting his hips up to rub his cock against the underside of Arthur’s sac. The omega gasps a little and rests his hand on his mate’s chest to remain balanced. 

"I’m your mate. Do you remember?" he says, both hands now resting on Eames’ chest, kneading the hot, slick skin there, which the alpha apparently enjoys because he hums in a voice that sounds like Eames, but Arthur knows it’s not. "I’ve known you a long time. My whole life, I think," Arthur murmurs, leaning down so he can kiss across Eames’ pectoral muscles. 

He’s aware he’s not making sense, and he feels warm all over. The heat is starting, and his brain is slowly shutting down. Hopefully, he won’t unlock the cuffs in the midst of his rut. He never has yet, but there’s no way of knowing if he will do that one day, and then they don’t know what will happen. But Eames will never forgive himself if he hurts Arthur.

"I love you," he says one last time before the world goes dark.

***

Once Arthur is blind, he navigates by taste and touch. He opens his mouth, breathes deeply, and gropes until he’s located the alpha’s cock. Eames shouts as soon as he touches him, and Arthur moans in response. He’s wet, really wet, so it’s easy to push the alpha’s tip into his hole and shove down upon it.

Eames bucks underneath him immediately, thrusting his hips up to bury himself to the hilt, and Arthur cries out. He doesn’t fully understand why the alpha hasn’t mounted him yet, or why he’s laying passively beneath him, but his baser instincts kick into gear. Arthur braces his feet against the mattress, reaches back to grip the alpha’s legs, and begins undulating his hips to work the hard length in and out of him.

Strangely, he hears metal clank against something, but when he opens his mouth to investigate, he’s overwhelmed by the pheromones that flood his mouth. Arthur groans, and the alpha echoes the noise. His fingertips dig into Eames’ thighs as he bounces roughly, riding the alpha’s cock hard. The deeper it presses, the wetter he gets, and Arthur arches his back, tilting his head so he’s moaning towards the ceiling.

The room is soaked in humidity, and he has to breath much deeper to get enough oxygen in his lungs, and whenever he touches the alpha, he feels burning flesh, covered in sweat. It makes things a bit slippery, but Arthur holds on tight as he bucks wildly atop the alpha, pulling grunts and growls from him. 

As the omega nears his climax, he whines and rubs his hand against his cock, pulling on it and rocking his hips so the alpha’s cock touches him just right, and suddenly he’s trembling and coming against his stomach. The alpha makes a desperate sound, thrusts up his hips rapidly, and Arthur holds on for the ride until Eames thrusts deep and goes still. Arthur collapses forward to rest against his chest, which is when the alpha’s cock begins to swell inside of him.

He moans softly, turning his head so he can mouth at the salty flesh on the alpha’s chest. Beneath his lips, he feels Eames’ heartbeat hammering just under the surface. The knot hurts, but it feels good stretching him, locking them together, and when it’s finished growing, Arthur lays very still and falls asleep.

They sleep for about an hour, and when they wake, Eames is no longer buried inside him. Arthur shifts, grunting when something hard pokes his rear. The alpha might not be inside him anymore—he probably slipped out while they were asleep—but he’s definitely ready for another round.

The omega rides him again, ignoring the burn of his leg muscles and the way his back aches when he arches it. All that matters is the end, when they both find their release, and the knot fills him again.

Arthur doesn’t so much asleep this time as he does pass out.

***

When he wakes again, it’s dark outside. He knows that because he can see again, which is a good sign. It means he’s past the peak of his rut, but it doesn’t mean his heat is over yet. Gradually, his senses will return, but his vision hasn’t fully come back, though he can easily determine light is no longer streaming through the bedroom window.

Arthur slowly picks up his head off Eames’ chest and looks up, and sees the alpha gazing back at him. When he squints a little, he can make out the features of Eames’ face. His pupils are no longer fully blown, but like Arthur, Eames is not entirely over his heat yet. 

"You know who I am?" Arthur asks weakly, his voice rough. He must have been _screaming_ earlier.

Eames shifts slightly, and when he does, Arthur sees the skin around his wrists is red and raw. When he rotates his hands, Arthur spots dried blood on the underside of a wrist. Despite being mildly injured, the alpha smirks faintly in answer. “I do,” he replies hoarsely, and when Arthur gazes at him fixedly, he sighs and adds: “You’re Arthur. My mate.”

Arthur smiles slowly, sitting up so he has a better vantage point. “How many kids do we have?”

Eames groans. “Don’t talk about the bloody sprogs right now.”

His smile blossoms into a full-blown grin. “How many?”

It’s clear Eames is returning to him judging by the annoyed glare he offers. “Three children, Arthur,” and then he lists in a single breath: “Jack, Rose, and Max.”

"Good," Arthur whispers, bending down to kiss him, and any resentment Eames felt about being quizzed while in the midst of heat vanishes. "Think we can take these off?" he murmurs once they’ve parted, reaching up to tug pointedly at the chain affixed to the bed.

Eames furrows his brow, clearly weighing the risks of such a decision, but thankfully, replies: “I think so.”

Once he removes the cuffs, Eames winces when he lowers his arms and examines his torn flesh. Arthur kisses the skin apologetically, but doesn’t get very far because Eames suddenly grabs him and rolls them both over on the bed.

Arthur laughs happily, throws his arms around Eames’ neck, and smiles up at him: “Welcome back.”

"Thank you, darling," he growls, but in a very Eames way, and leans down to kiss and nips at his lips.

As much fun as he has during a rough fuck, he absolutely prefers this: when Eames is present and passionate, and eats him alive. They kiss hungrily, his fingers gripping and tugging at the alpha’s hair, and Eames’ hands everywhere at once—making up for lost time—tenderly cupping his face, then applying delicious pressure to his throat, and finally reaching down to push his thighs open.

Eames pulls away from him when he pushes inside because he likes to watch Arthur’s face when he does that, and the omega puts on a little show, tilting his head back and moaning throatily so his mate knows how much he likes it.

Arthur pulls his legs as high as he can against his chest when Eames starts to fuck him with short, rough strokes that are beautiful and perfect, and leave him whimpering and crying against the sheets.

He reaches down and gropes blindly, gripping the firm cheeks of Eames’ ass, pulling him forth, dragging them together so his cock goes as deep as possible. “Oh,  _fuck_ ,” he gasps, brow furrowed as Eames’ hips clap against him loudly. He’s hard, but he doesn’t want to touch himself at the risk of things ending too soon, and Arthur wants to remember this part—when they’re both coherent, and drunk on each other’s presence. 

Eames mouths at his jaw, and neck, and Arthur dips his chin down so their lips can meet again. They kiss as best they can, and when their rhythm grows too frenzied to do that, they breathe into one another’s mouth. “Eames,” he groans, his abdominal muscles tightening in warning a split second before he comes hard, although he doesn’t have any more seed to spill, so the orgasm is dry. 

Arthur holds onto Eames tightly, teeth buried in the flesh of his shoulder so he doesn’t scream when the alpha fucks him hard. Eames grabs his legs and hooks his knee over the mauled shoulder, and Arthur is forced back onto the bed while the alpha thrusts into him. He’s so sore, and soaked, but still the spot deep inside him aches for Eames, and he cries out helplessly when the new angle results in the alpha slamming into it again and again.

He’s half-conscious by the time Eames grabs him and rearranges them on the bed, and when his eyes blink open, Arthur sees the bed is a total mess—sheets and mattress padding torn off the corners and resting in a messy nest in the center of the bed. He grunts and Eames presses against his back and kisses the crook of his neck. “All right?” he asks, voice rough.

Arthur hums affirmatively, but for the sake of full disclosure, adds: “Sore.”

As if on cue, he feels the familiar swelling inside and moans softly. “Sorry,” Eames whispers, but his voice is tight, and frankly he doesn’t sound that sorry.

He closes his eyes and meditates through the worst of it, not that it’s ever all bad. Once the pain subsides, the pleasure rushes in, and by the end, Arthur can’t really remember why he ever dreaded the knot to begin with.

Afterwards, Eames rubs his stomach comfortingly, nosing and mouthing at his neck as Arthur drifts off to sleep.

***

He loses track of how many times they mate, but thankfully they have the presence of mind to drink all the glasses of water, and Eames is coherent enough to know the difference between rough and violent. 

After the heats leave them, Arthur sleeps for a long time, and when he wakes, it’s day, and there’s noise emitting from the kitchen.

He carefully climbs out of bed and gingerly walks to the bathroom to examine himself. He’s bruised, primarily around the hips and thigh region, but it’s nothing too severe. All in all, a successful  _DEFCON_. 

Arthur strips the bed and hides the handcuffs, and then takes a nice, long,  _hot_ shower. When he’s dressed in fresh slacks and shirt, he walks from the bedroom in as normal of a gait as he can manage, and smiles when he sees the kids at the kitchen table, stuffing their faces.

Eames is clad in sweatpants, a tank top, and an apron that reads  _Kiss The Cook_ , but Arthur can’t even focus on the poor sartorial selection because he spots what his mate has been cooking for the children. It’s mac and cheese, but judging from the ingredients scattered across the counter, a gourmet version. “Oh my God,” Arthur laughs when he sees everything. “How many different kinds of cheese are in this?”

His mate shrugs innocently and opens the oven, peeking inside at yet another batch baking away. Eames tends to overfeed the children after one of their heats, possibly out of misplaced guilt for having to send them away. “Just some Parmesan…and Gruyere,” he says, adding under his breath, “And Fontina…and goat cheese.”

"There’s bacon!" Jack cries happily from the table, and Arthur looks back to Eames with a raised brow.

"Thank you for that, son," he says, smiling tightlipped at Jack, but the boy is too busy stuffing his face full of fattening goodness to really notice. "The salt is kosher," he offers in penitence, smiling in what he probably thinks is a charming way.

"Uh-huh," Arthur mutters, eyeing the empty bottle of whole milk in the sink. He’s pretty sure he banned whole milk from the house, so he has no idea where Eames has been hiding it. Maybe he ran out to go food shopping earlier.

"Do you feel better, daddy?" Max asks, swinging his legs off the edge of the chair, only a little mac and cheese smeared across his face.

Lately, they’ve been telling the kids that one of them is sick during their heats. 

Arthur smooths Max’s hair off his forehead and picks up a napkin to wipe his face. “Much better. Thank you, baby,” he says, bending down to kiss the top of his head. “Enjoy your food.”

"Would you care for some, my love?" Eames asks breezily, like he’s not singlehandedly clogging the arteries of their family. 

But Arthur is in too good of a mood to care, and besides, he’s burnt enough calories over the past few days to warrant plying himself with cholesterol-packed cheese. “Please,” he says, pulling up a chair to the table so he can carefully ease down onto the seat situated between Max and Rose.

"Did you have the swine flu?" Rose asks, apropos of nothing.

Arthur blinks at his lovely daughter. “Uh, no. Why would you think that?”

"Saw it on the TV," she answers lightly, shovelling more food in her mouth. 

"Daddy just had a little cold," Eames interjects, setting a steaming plate down in front of him. Arthur’s mouth instantly waters the second he lays eyes on the food. Eames really is a god in the kitchen.

"Christ, thank you," he says reflexively, and Eames may or may not kiss his temple, but Arthur doesn’t really know because he’s destroying the food in front of him. It’s just occurred to him that he hasn’t eaten in three days, and he’s literally starving.

"Lots more where that came from," Eames says, dragging a chair to the table so he can sit between Jack and Max, and steal some food off Jack’s plate. 

The boy glares at him and wraps his arms protectively around his plate while he finishes the mac and cheese, and Arthur nearly rolls his eyes watching them. 

 _Alphas_.

When Arthur comes up for air after polishing his plate, Max is watching him curiously, as is Rose, and she looks like she isn’t entirely convinced he doesn’t have swine flu.

"Did you have fun at the Aldens?" Arthur asks.

"Yes!" Max responds at once, smiling brightly, a little too enthusiastically, in his opinion. Patrick has been known to let Max indulge in his sweet tooth while he visits, and Max oftentimes comes back with a sugar rush that lasts for days.

"But you missed me, right?" Arthur asks, reaching out to pinch his chubby cheek affectionately.

"Yup," Max responds immediately, sweet and sincere, and Arthur smiles brightly. 

When he looks across the table, Eames is watching him, a warm glow in his eyes.


	27. Patrick and Edward meet Arthur and Eames

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patrick and Edward meet Arthur and Eames.

"I was thinking we could invite the neighbors over for Thanksgiving this year," Arthur remarks casually as he rubs some kind of exfoliating cream against his cheek.

They’re standing in the bathroom, getting ready for bed, after waging a half an hour battle trying to get Jack to sleep. The boy takes after Eames, and as such he’s eaten too many sweets during school break, and is still probably twitching with sugary energy beneath the covers.

Eames stares at Arthur’s reflection, waiting for the knowing smirk, or a wink or something, but it never comes.

Arthur gazes back at him curiously, switches to the other cheek, and rubs the gook across his skin. Eames doesn’t know what the stuff is, but it’s bloody expensive, comes from France, and apparently contains water from the Fountain of Youth because his mate hasn’t aged a day in over a decade.

The alpha blinks slowly, his grip tightening on the handle of his toothbrush. “Right…” he drawls. He’s still waiting for Arthur to burst out laughing and cry: _kidding_! But no…nothing. Arthur is serious. Arthur honestly wants to invite the neighbors, and their boy Peter, over for the holidays when they already have three sprogs to contend with: ages three-through-five. 

Holidays are a big enough headache without adding more people into the mix. Eames imagines cooking for eight people and nearly drops dead right then and there. 

"Are you angry with me?" he asks.

Arthur smirks and bends down to wash the cream off his face. After he straightens and switches off the water, Arthur grabs a hand towel and pats his face dry. He smiles at Eames’ reflection, and his skin looks lovely and invigorated. “I just thought it would be nice. I’ve only seen them in passing, and we should get to know them. They live right across the street, and they have a boy Jack’s age.”

Eames nods slowly and stares down at the red toothbrush in his fist. That is indeed a nice idea, and he would be a terrible partner if he behaved selfishly on the holidays, but he flashes back to an hour ago when he was chasing Jack around the house in a half-crouch, trying to catch the remarkably swift child. 

This is going to be a nightmare.

"Of course," Eames says benevolently, "Whatever you want, love."

***

Eames deserves a bloody medal. He’s been prepping and cooking  _for hours_ , and Arthur, bless him, does try to help, but he’s not as gifted in the kitchen as the alpha, and he also has to keep an eye on the sprogs. As a result, Eames is largely on his own preparing the enormous bird, and the other various accoutrements one associates with the traditional American Thanksgiving dinner.

Occasionally, he sees Arthur hurry by, cradling Max in his arms, as he tells Jack to stop doing something, or Rose to stop pulling her hair out of the carefully coifed braid Arthur finally secured the strands into.  

"Hi, dada!" Max says during one of their passages, and Eames looks up to smile at the boy.

"Hey, ducky. Looking good."

"Jack, put that down!" Arthur orders, and he disappears down the hallway again.

He’s still slaving away in the kitchen when the front doorbell rings and Arthur hurries over to answer it. Eames hears a chorus of voices ring from the foyer, and he quickly dries off his hands, straightens the collar of his shirt, and walks out of the kitchen. Hanging his most charming smile on his lips, Eames turns the corner and sees two men and a little boy standing in front of Arthur: the omega is slim and blond, and he immediately pegs the tall, strapping gent as a fellow alpha.

Peter, the child, stands between his parents and gazes up at Arthur with wide, blue eyes.

The alpha is ridiculously overdressed for a neighborly visit, a fact Eames is sure Arthur adores, while the omega is sporting similar garb to Eames’ own outfit: pressed slacks, collared shirt (“It’s the bloody holidays,” he’d whined to Arthur earlier when the omega suggested he put on a tie.)

"Smashing suit," the alpha says to Arthur, and Eames’ ears perk up a bit when he hears the familiar posh accent of a countryman. "Yves Saint Laurent?"

Arthur smiles, clearly impressed, and Eames has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Got it in one. I had no idea you have such fine sartorial taste, Edward.”

Eames feels a bit silly experiencing a spike of jealousy, especially when the other omega—his name is Patrick, if Eames’ memory serves correctly—smiles obliviously, like their respective mates aren’t annoyingly bonding over an esoteric and weird celebration of fashion. “Oh, yeah. Eddie knows all about clothes stuff,” he says in what Eames thinks is a watered down southern accent.

When the neighbors turn in his direction, Eames approaches with his hand extended in greeting. “Eames. Nice to meet you both.”

"You’re from England!" Patrick cries, still smilingly glowingly.

Eames can’t help but grin at the omega’s enthusiasm. “Oxford, originally.”

"You’re joking," Edward say in surprise. "I studied in Oxford."

They make idle chitchat in the foyer until the scent of baking meat floods the area, and Eames’ nostrils. He really should check on the food. “Well, if you’ll excuse me. I must go monitor our dinner,” he says.

Edward’s brow furrows and he glances at Arthur, but he’s silent when Eames turns on his heels and slips back into the kitchen. As he tinkers with fixings at the kitchen island, Eames looks up and sees Arthur guiding Edward and Patrick into the living room area. Edward and Patrick take a seat on the couch, and Peter climbs up to sit between them, his little dress shoes swinging in the air.

The alpha looks a bit confused as he continues to look from Arthur back to Eames in the kitchen, and that’s when Eames remembers he and Arthur are a rather nontraditional AO couple.

 _This is going to be fun_ , he thinks evilly as he slices some sweet onions.

"So…" Edward begins, with all the caution of a fire walker’s first tentative step. "You do the cooking, then?" he asks, directing the question over to the kitchen where Eames can easily hear him.

"Oh yes," he answers casually, flashing a smile at the group. "I love cooking. I find it very meditative."

Judging by the furrow in Edward’s brow, Eames might as well have just told him he enjoys being routinely kicked in the bollocks as a form of entertainment.

"And…you stay at home with the children?" the poor, confused alpha ventures when he looks back to Arthur.

"I’m a business consultant," Arthur replies in a chilly tone Eames recognizes immediately as a warning shot across the bow. 

If he was a compassionate alpha, he’d tell Edward  _careful, mate_ , but he’s rather enjoying seeing Lord Fancypants suffer a bit.

"It smells wonderful," Patrick interrupts, smiling graciously in Eames’ direction.

"Why,  _thank you_ , Patrick,” Eames responds sweetly, and Arthur glares at him over his shoulder as if to say:  _I’m on to you_.

Luckily, Jack enters the room at that exact moment, carrying one of his toy trucks. “Hi!” he declares boldly when he lays eyes on a fellow child. Peter waves a little, and Patrick gently brushes the boy’s dark fringe off his brow. 

"Why don’t you two go play in Jack’s room?" he offers.

Peter climbs off the couch and follows Jack down the hallway. “You can play with my trucks,” Jack says, and Eames feel a minor pang of guilt that his son is currently being more authentically neighborly than he is—what with his silent cheering of Edward flailing in the presence of Arthur’s icy magnificence.

"Please be nice to Max!" Arthur calls after him before turning to the other couple. "So, what do you do, Patrick?"

"Pat’s a traditional stay-at-home omega," Edward responds fondly, smiling at his mate.

Eames sets down his utensils and leans against the counter so he isn’t distracted and can fully enjoy witnessing Arthur’s response.

"And what is a  _traditional_  omega, in your opinion, Edward?” Arthur counters, probably just restraining himself from putting air quotes around the offensive word.

Clearly, the alpha isn’t  _trying_ to be a total wanker. He probably just isn’t accustomed to meeting omegas like Arthur, and he wishes he could engage in some serious schadenfreud, but unfortunately, Eames ends up feeling slightly sorry for the wildly outmatched Edward.

Again, Patrick intervenes with some rapid talk and a pretty smile. “I know just what you mean. I was watching this television show the other day,  _Mornings with Debra_. Do you ever watch that?” he asks, not even pausing for a verbal response from anyone. “It’s a wonderful program. This lady, Debra, she’s an omega, but she’s this modern business woman, and she always says that our culture is changing, and omegas are doing all kinds of things they never did in the past. It’s really a wonderful, wonderful program.”

Eames blinks slowly and looks back to Edward, who smiles tightlipped at Patrick, and appears to be doing everything in his power to avoid the hostile glare of Arthur.

"I’ve seen that show," Eames says, smiling at Patrick. "It’s very good."

The omega visibly exhales once someone has spoken, and he nods in response. 

***

Eames pulls Arthur into the garage to “help him restock on soda,” but really he just wants to give Edward a breather from Arthur’s interrogation.

"What an  _asshole_ ,” Arthur seethes, pacing across the cement floor. “Can you believe that? Oh,  _Patrick is a traditional omega_ ,” he parrots in a very unflattering English accent.

He makes sure to nod sympathetically lest Arthur find something sharp with which to stab him. “Utter wankery,” he agrees. “But darling, I thought the idea of this was to be pleasant and neighborly.”

Arthur huffs. “Well, I didn’t know our neighbour is an asshole.”

Eames leans against his car and shrugs slowly. “Patrick seems lovely.”

The omega frowns as he stares at the closed door that leads back into the house. “Yeah, I guess he is.”

"And Jack seems to be getting along with Peter," he adds.

Slowly, Eames sees the frigid facade falling away until Arthur’s shoulders slump minutely, and he knows it’s safe to approach him. Eames slides his arms around Arthur’s waist and kisses his frowning mouth. “I keep telling you, no alpha will ever measure up to me, but it’s not fair to hold that against old Edward.”

Arthur grins, his fingers sliding along the curves of Eames’ shoulders. “He’s younger than you.”

"Not in spirit," Eames responds nonsensically, and then kisses Arthur before the omega can question his logic.

***

Things get a little better at dinner, though it would be unfair to blame the previous awkwardness on low blood sugar. Eames can tell everything Arthur does still mystifies Edward—including occasionally interrupting Eames, asking Eames to do things, and taking control of the conversation by changing the subject from time to time.

It’s sort of a nervous tick, but Edward keeps glancing over to Eames when these things occur, as if waiting for the alpha to issue a correction. Of course, Eames never does, but he makes sure to make eye contact with the other alpha every single time and smile politely.

The sprogs are gathered at one end of the table, and the adults occupy the other end. Max is in a booster seat beside Arthur, so the omega can help him eat and cut up his food. Rose also occasionally needs help, and Eames stands up and walks over to his daughter to assist when she needs him, and he can feel Edward watching him when this happens.

Jack and Peter eat unassisted, but have somehow managed to get most of their meal on the table, or on the fronts of their shirts. Patrick notices this, and hurries over to clean up the mess a bit, mumbling an apology to Arthur in the process.

Arthur smiles at the other omega. “Don’t worry. We’re used to it.”

Eames nods, eyes slightly glazed when a memory of Jack flinging his creamed peas against the wall comes rushing back to him.

When Patrick isn’t blathering to make the conversation less awkward, he’s fairly quiet—bowing to the authority of Edward, which sometimes includes answering questions on his behalf. Whenever Edward does this, Arthur hilariously pretends not to have heard him, and again directs his question at Patrick until the omega answers for himself.

Eventually, the conversation splits, with the omegas talking among themselves, and he and Edward discussing sports. It’s then that the other Brit wins his heart. Edward roots for all the correct football and rugby teams, and has some compelling (read: identical to Eames’ own) thoughts on players and owners. They both express nostalgia for the old days of going to the pubs with the lads to watch games, and Eames invites Edward over for future games so they can recapture some of that camaraderie.

He may have some rather outdated notions of AO relationships, but other than that flaw, Edward seems like a good man. He clearly treats Patrick very well, and though Arthur confuses him, he hasn’t technically said anything unforgivable yet. Besides, maybe being around an omega like Arthur will do some good for Edward—open his mind, expand his boundaries, and what not.

After dinner, Arthur and Patrick clear the table, and the lines of Edward’s shoulders visibly relax now that the omegas are doing something traditional, and therefore logical, in the alpha’s opinion.

While the sprogs play in the living room, he pours himself and Edward each a little brandy before they slip onto the back patio to sit at the table and enjoy their nightcap. 

"I say, your Arthur is a spark plug," he says, sniffing the brandy before sipping it.

Eames smirks into his glass. Never before in his life has he heard anyone refer to Arthur as a  _spark plug_ , and it’s a shame he’s going to have to die without sharing that bit of information with Arthur because, if he did, his mate would walk outside and drown Edward in the pool.

"He’s…nontraditional, as you say," Eames smirks.

Edwards sighs and sets down his glass. “I’m sorry about that, by the way. I’m afraid I’ve offended Arthur.”

Eames waves his free hand dismissively. “Don’t worry. You’re right. We are nontraditional, but it works for us.”

The other alpha nods slowly, contemplatively, as he stares at the amber liquid at the bottom of his tumbler. “There’s an omega at my law firm, you know. He’s great. Good, hard worker.”

It takes everything in his power not to wince at the clumsy  _I have an omega friend_ approach, but Eames smiles slightly because he knows this is Edward trying to be tolerant of people living their lives differently than him.

***

Peter is exhausted, and already asleep in Edward’s arms, by the time they say goodbye at the door. The boy’s cheek presses to the alpha’s shoulder, and they say their farewells in hushed voices so as to not wake him.

Patrick and Arthur seem to have gotten along swimmingly because the omegas hug at the door, and poor Edward tries once more to apologize to Arthur.

"I’m sorry if I caused any offense," he whispers.

Arthur smiles graciously and shakes his head. “It’s okay. Really, it’s fine.”

Eames knows he means it. After all, if Arthur can forgive  _Cobb_ , he’s capable of pretty much forgiving anyone for any number of indiscretions. 

Once the neighbors are gone, they set about getting the sprogs ready for bed, which in itself can take an hour, but today, mercifully, takes only thirty minutes. Jack is fatigued from overstimulating himself with Peter all night, and he’s out almost as soon as his head touches the pillow. 

As usual, Max wants Arthur to give him hugs, and lay with him for a bit, before he finally concedes and falls asleep (and even then, he’ll probably wake them in a couple hours to sleep between them in the master bed, anyway).

Rose’s hair is a tangled mess from roughhousing with the boys all day. Peter, in particular, seemed to delight in chasing Rose around, pulling her braid loose. Arthur spends a good ten minutes brushing the mane and detangling it before he permits her to get into bed. 

"Love you," Eames whispers to his daughter before flipping the light out and shutting the door.

He knows Arthur is exhausted because the omega foregoes his usual bedtime routine of washing his face, and instead collapses face down on the mattress.

"Thank you," he murmurs into the blankets. "Dinner was delicious."

Eames smirks as he unbuttons his shirt. “And I’m very proud you didn’t shank the neighbor.”

Arthur is grinning by the time he rolls onto his back. “He deserved it.”

"Oh, I agree," Eames says soberly, sliding the shirt off his shoulders, and tossing it in the hamper. "I would have helped you hide the body, my sweet. You know me. Loyal until the end."

When he’s stripped down to his boxers, Eames walks over to Arthur and unties the omega’s shoes, slipping them off, along with his socks. Arthur watches him with an amused glint in his eyes, and only moves to lift his hips a bit when Eames slides his trousers down. “Please don’t throw my very expensive suit in the hamper,” he says.

"Wouldn’t dream of it," Eames replies, doing an exaggerated job of hanging Arthur’s precious garments with the utmost care inside the wardrobe.

When he turns around, Arthur is propped up on his elbows, watching Eames thoughtfully. “Do you think I’m a bad omega?” he asks.

Eames blinks in surprise. “Don’t tell me he actually got to you, darling.”

Arthur shrugs his slender shoulders slightly. “I don’t know. You  _do_ run the house, basically. Do you ever wish I wasn’t—”

"You?" Eames interrupts, smiling faintly. "Do you have to ask that?"

Arthur gazes down at his feet, and the expression is sweet—slightly shy. “I guess I wanted to hear you say it.”

Eames climbs into bed beside him and pulls the omega close to him, so Arthur is half-draped on top of him. “I don’t want anyone else,” Eames murmurs, stealing a kiss before he adds: “I just want you.”


	28. Max and Ravi get hitched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max and Ravi get hitched.

The phone is ringing when they pull up in the garage. 

Faintly, Arthur hears the rhythmic ting through the door, and so he leaps out of the car, darts up the stairs, and races into the house. Eames is still parking the car, and afterwards he’ll have to get the groceries out of the trunk. He hears the alpha say something along the lines of: “This is why we have an answering machine,” but Arthur ignores him.

It might be Max, and Arthur doesn’t want to miss his weekly phone call.

"Hello?" he gasps into the receiver, panting a little from the mad dash up the stairs. 

"Hey," Max says, sounding mildly concerned. "Is this a bad time?"

Arthur leans against the counter and smiles. “No, no. Not at all. How are you?”

Rustling fills Arthur’s ears. “Um…” Max begins, and the crepitation grows more prominent before it falls away entirely. Arthur furrows his brow as he listens. Max must have moved to a different room. “Good, actually. Um…”

"Is everything okay?" he asks, frowning at the wall. 

Max laughs. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. Actually, Ravi asked me to marry him.”

It’s not an easy feat to surprise Arthur—not after everything he’s lived through while working in dreamshare—but in that moment, he’s utterly stunned. His grip tightens on the phone, and his lips fall open in shock. Something between a guffaw and a gasp expels from his mouth. “Oh my God. Really?”

The door to the garage closes behind him, and Arthur turns around to see Eames carrying the grocery bags inside. The alpha frowns when he sees Arthur’s shocked expression and he mouths:  _what is it?_ But Arthur can only shake his head, a smile stretching his cheeks so widely that they begin to hurt. 

"Yeah, a couple days ago," Max says, and he can tell his son his smiling from the tone of his voice.

"Really?" Arthur redundantly asks again. 

Max laughs. “Really. Honestly. I swear.”

Thankfully, Eames is there to take the phone from him when he starts to cry. “Ducky, what have you done to your father?” the alpha crows into the phone, and then grows silent following the question. Arthur is a weepy mess, but he carefully watches Eames’ face for the moment his eyes light up and a bright grin breaks out across his lips. “Brilliant!” he cries happily, and then laughs when he looks at Arthur: “Why in the world are you crying, darling?”

Arthur shakes his head. “I’m happy,” he says, quickly wiping his face, and leaning against Eames when the alpha throws an arm around his shoulders and pulls him close. 

Max keeps talking, and Eames responds periodically with an occasional, “Uh-huh,” and “Right.”

"Well, all right, ducky. Sounds brilliant to me, but I’ll give you back to your dad. Tell Ravi well done, and send him our love."

Eames is still smiling happily when he hands the phone back to Arthur.

"Hey, baby," Arthur says softly.

"You’re happy, right?" Max asks, his tone worried now.

"Oh, you’ve no idea," Arthur replies, smiling. "Ravi will be a wonderful husband. I know it."

Max tone brightens again once he knows Arthur is actually happy in the news’ wake. “Okay, cool. Listen, I’ll call you later with more details, but my head is still spinning over here.”

Arthur nods, even though Max can’t see him. “I’m sure. Call us soon, okay?”

"Okay. I promise."

"We’re really so happy, Max."

Arthur can visualise Max’s smiling face when he responds: “Good. So are we.”

When Arthur hangs up the phone, he wipes his face again and looks at Eames, who is busy looking rather smug as he plucks canned goods out of the brown paper bag and places them in the cabinet.

"What’re you up to?" Arthur asks, a slow smirk bleeding across his lips.

Looking exactly like the cat that ate the canary, Eames pauses and leans against the island. “Ah, wrong question, my love. You should ask: what have I been up to already?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “No riddles. Tell me. I’m too emotional right now.”

Eames pouts for a split second, but he’s too pleased with himself to sulk for much longer. Instead, he leans forward and whispers conspiratorially, “Ravi called me last week and asked me for permission to marry Max.”

Arthur’s reflexive reaction is to shove Eames, and the alpha looks genuinely surprised by the omega’s strength, but then he explodes in laughter. “Oi, watch it!”

"You  _knew_?” Arthur cries, a smile breaking across his face. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

The alphas shrugs. “Wanted you to be surprised,” he says, pausing for a moment. “And, frankly, I wanted to make sure Ravi went through with it. He sounded bloody  _petrified_ over the phone.”

Arthur walks over to his mate and cups his face gently. “I can’t believe you kept that from me,” he says, but the omega is smiling as he chastises Eames. “What else haven’t you told me?”

Eames cautiously rests his hands on Arthur’s hips, and when the omega doesn’t glare at him, he slides his arms around Arthur’s waist and pulls him close. “Have I told you I’m a spy for the Russians?” Eames asks, lowering the pitch of his voice.

Arthur smiles until his dimples are on full display as he wraps his arms around Eames’ neck. “Da, no vash russkiy otstoy,” he responds without hesitation. (“Yes, but your Russian sucks.”)

The omega uses Eames’ temporary stunned state to slip from his arms and saunter towards the bedroom, casting a sly smile over his shoulder.

Eames snaps out of it quickly enough and chases after him. “Wait, you be Dimitri, the naive, but flexible Private, and I’ll be Vlad, your tough, but sexually appealing Sergeant.” 

Arthur laughs loudly, but manages to purr, “Da, ser,” before Eames kicks the bedroom door shut.

(“Yes, sir.”)

***

_One week earlier_

Ravi has been planning this evening for months. He’s managed to secure them a reservation at the most expensive restaurant in the city, and for that reason alone, he’s been saving every penny of his pay check so he’ll have enough for their meal, and of course, the ring.

He’s especially proud of the ring.

Fishing the small black, velvet box from his jacket pocket, Ravi opens the case for the millionth time to look at it: a white gold band with a fourth carat of white diamonds running along the middle. It set him back several pay checks, and Max had looked at him oddly more than a few times when Ravi innocently suggested they buy non-brand food products just to save a bit more cash.

But now, the time is upon them. The reservation at  _Le Cœur_ has been made, the ring is in his possession, and Eames has just given Ravi his blessing to ask for Max’s hand in marriage. Of course, the “blessing” had included a not-so-veiled threat along the lines of  _if you ever hurt my baby boy_ , but it’s still a blessing, nonetheless. 

Ravi flips the box shut and slips it into the inside pocket of his jacket.

Now, he just needs to  _bloody calm down_.

He’s afraid, if Max comes home from class too soon, he’ll see Ravi pacing around, hands shaking, and immediately know what’s going on. Ravi has an absolutely abysmal poker face, and even though Max is a somewhat naive, trusting soul, he’s not oblivious enough to miss the alpha sweating through three layers of clothing.

He hurries to the bathroom to slip off his jacket and splash some cold water on his face, and then flips down the toilet lid so he can sit down for a while.

Ravi is breathing meditatively in the bathroom when the downstairs door slam shuts and Max comes running up the stairs.

Quickly, he stands up, slips into his jacket again, and walks out into the main room to greet the omega. They’d planned to leave for  _Le Cœur_ as soon as Max returned from his evening class, and quickly changed, but when Ravi sees his mate, he instantly knows there will have to edit the schedule.

Max looks awful. He’s pale, with dark bruising under his eyes, giving the appearance he hasn’t slept in ages—even though Ravi knows for a fact he slept about ten hours last night. The omega had said he’d been feeling a little under the weather, but hoped to beat it by passing out for a long night of rest.

Apparently, that didn’t work. 

"I’m so sorry," Max says immediately, dropping his book bag by the table. 

When Ravi hugs him, he can feel Max has sweated through his shirt and partway through his jacket. “It’s all right, love,” he says lightly, even though there is a circus of panic running through his brain. 

There’s no way they’ll be able to get another table at  _Le Cœur_ for several months, which throws off the rest of his plan. Without the perfect restaurant, Ravi will have to reconfigure the rest of his proposal. And the proposal  _has_ to happen at  _Le Cœur_ because it’s the nicest restaurant in town, and Max deserves the best.

"We can reschedule," Ravi says pleasantly, kissing the omega’s brow, and he feels the flesh there is warm—too hot. Max has a fever.

"But..you said..it’s hard to get a reservation, right?" Max asks.

Ravi frowns when the omega shakes against him.  _Fever, and chills, apparently_ , he notes.

"Nonsense," he dismisses breezily. "Let’s get you into bed, yeah?" 

Max is too weak to oppose the idea, and they end up shedding his clothing article by article on the way to the bedroom. Dressed in boxers alone, Max crawls under the blankets and cocoons himself. Ravi fetches the thermometer from the bathroom cabinet and places the metal tip under Max’s tongue for about thirty seconds. When he removes it and gazes at the little screen, Ravi frowns. “Slight fever, love. You stay here and rest. I’ll take care of you.”

He feels the impulse to smile fondly when Max gazes up at him, miserable and furious at a universe that has punished him with sickness on this, of all days. “I’m sorry,” he apologises again. “You look so handsome. I was so excited for tonight.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ravi presses his comparatively cool hand against Max’s brow, and the omega hums gratefully. “It’s not your fault,” he says, smiling in what he hopes is a comforting fashion. “I’ll go make you some soup, hm?”

Max nods slightly, and he looks so defenceless and young that Ravi genuinely forgets to care that all his carefully laid plans have been completely derailed. He just wants to take care of Max.

Ravi stands, and leans over the bed to pick up the teddy that Max always keeps on the bed. He means for it to be a light, playful moment when he hands the bear to Max, but when he looks back at the omega, he sees Max holding the small black box in his hands.

"What’s this?" Max asks.

Ravi drops the bear on the bed and stands upright, heart in his throat. The box must have fallen out of his pocket when he leaned over Max, and the omega thus far hasn’t pieced together what it all means. Wildly, he thinks maybe he can still lie his way out of the situation, but he can’t make his tongue cooperate, and then it’s too late.

Max opens it and gasps. But the omega doesn’t  _say_ anything. Instead, he looks from the ring up to Ravi, awaiting an explanation.

But the thing is: Ravi can’t think of what to say because none of this is part of his plan. The alpha enjoys making meticulous arrangements, and sometimes, when those plans are demolished with a couple tons of dynamite, he finds it difficult to improvise. 

"Ravi?" Max asks, and even though he’s sweaty, pale, and sniffling, Max is still the most beautiful omega he’s ever seen.

Ravi sighs. “Bugger,” he mumbles, chin dropping a bit. “I…wanted this to be special.”

Max is silent, but he looks at the ring again, and then looks back to him. “Wanted what to be special?”

The alphas sighs, frustrated with himself that he could have been so  _bloody stupid_ as to give the game away like this. Max deserves better. Max deserves a perfect proposal, which includes a perfect night at  _Le Cœur_ , and a perfect meal, and a perfect bottle of wine. “You know…” he says, gesturing helplessly at the box. 

"No…" Max says, putting the box down on the blanket, in front of Ravi. "Why don’t you tell me?"

Ravi furrows his brow, but when he sees the glint in Max’s eyes, he understands. Max knows exactly what the ring means, but he wants Ravi to stop being a sulky prat, and  _ask him already_.

Maybe Ravi has seen one too many romantic films. Maybe fancy restaurants are overrated. Perhaps the perfect proposal entails an element of surprise—say, dropping the engagement ring in his mate’s lap, for example. But mainly, the perfect proposal involves two partners, who are mad about each other, and giddy at the prospect of spending the rest of their lives together. 

He picks up the little black box and gets down on his knee at the side of the bed. Max sits up a little, smiling brightly when Ravi opens the box and shows him the ring. “Anyway, will you marry me, Max?” Ravi asks, and strangely, it feels right. He’s nervous, just as he should be, and stupidly happy. 

Max, the poor thing, is so ill, but still his face lights up and he nods immediately. “Yes,” and when the alpha slides the ring onto his finger, tears well up in his eyes. “It’s so beautiful, Ravi.” 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, Ravi folds Max into his arms, and kisses him—uncaring of germs, and the fact that he is definitely going to catch the flu from the omega. Ravi just wants to be near him, even if it means curled up miserably beside him for a few days.

***

Max calls back a few days later, and before Arthur can even say  _hello_ , declares, “Okay, here’s the plan.”

The wedding will take place in a few months in India so Ravi’s whole family, including Yusuf, can attend it. Arthur insists that Cobb, the kids, and Ariadne all be invited, to which Max responds: “Of course, dad.  _Jeez_ ,” as if he’d forget his uncle, cousins, and aunt.

"Oh, and also Patrick, Edward, and Peter."

"Yup, already on the list," Max responds.

Thus begins a daily ritual of Max calling Arthur to consult him about details of the wedding, and whenever Arthur points out this would be easier if he just flew to Massachusetts and planned these things in person with him, Max insists that he can handle it on his own. 

Then he calls Arthur again the next day, and they run up the bill chatting for hours about color schemes, and food, and music.

"Now, dad," Max says in a way that is meant to brace Arthur for bad news. "Traditional Indian weddings are very…colorful." 

Arthur scowls into the air. “I know that,” he responds defensively.

"Right…" Max says, sounding unsure. "I just want you to be ready for…lots of color…and bold prints."

Arthur nearly huffs into the phone. “I think I can handle it. You  _have_ met your father, right?”

Max laughs. “Fair enough.”

Despite the joy of the occasion, Arthur is relieved to hear Max confirm that he still intends to finish school. He’s in his second year now, and doing very well, and part of Arthur feared Max would want to drop out and start a family with Ravi. Arthur wants grandkids as much as Eames, but he can wait a couple years for them.

"We want you and dad to come out a little earlier than everyone else to help with planning," Max says.

"Of course," Arthur responds, flipping out his moleskin like it’s attached at his hip in a holster—just like in the old days. "Just give me the details and we’ll be there."

***

The wedding is scheduled in spring, and when Arthur receives the phone call from Max with the details about where they’re flying to (New Delhi,) he books a room at the  _Lalit_ , a five-star hotel, because he’s still Arthur, after all.

He’s had to be cautious while planning the wedding with Max, being sure to say _spare no expense_ , without raising curious questions from their son. Arthur and Eames have acquired a small fortune from their time in dreamshare, and each of the kids has a trust fund waiting for them when they turn twenty-five, but in the meantime, Arthur keeps the details of their finances vague.

All he keeps saying is, “Whatever you want, baby,” when Max hesitantly asks for higher quality chairs for the reception, or nicer bouquets for the tables.

Their first day in New Delhi, Max arranges a meeting for the parents. 

Arthur dresses in his favorite Hugo Boss suit, and sits on the edge of the bed, waiting for Eames to emerge from the bathroom.

He hasn’t seen Eames clean-shaven and sporting a suit in some exotic location since their days in dreamshare, and when the alpha emerges from the bathroom wearing a charcoal Tom Ford suit, face smooth, hair slicked back, he looks so much like his old self—with perhaps a bit more gray hair—that Arthur is left momentarily speechless.

"That good?" Eams grins, pretending to fix his cufflinks ala James Bond. 

"You look…amazing," Arthur says, deciding not to filter how he really feels because he doesn’t have to do that with Eames anymore. He hasn’t had to do that in a very, very long time, actually.

The soft expression on Eames’ face is belied by his sarcastic tone. “Do  _try_ not to sound so surprised, darling.”

Arthur stands and slowly approaches his mate, greedily drinking in the details of his appearance. He gently grips the jacket’s lapels and presses close to him, smiling the whole while.

Silently, they move towards each other, their lips softly meeting.

And they’re very nearly late meeting Ravi’s parents.

***

Nilaya, thank God, is almost nothing like her brother. In fact, it seems as though the only characteristics they share are a razor sharp wit and a high degree of brilliance. But apart from that—Nilaya is open and sincere where Yusuf is snide and conniving, Nilaya warm where Yusuf is oftentimes aloof. 

She’s the director of a non-profit focused on providing women with micro-loans to start up businesses, while Yusuf is an internationally wanted felon specialising in drugging other criminals so they can steal people’s thoughts.

It’s also very clear where Ravi got his looks. She is a vision: dressed in a gorgeous emerald Sari, ornate golden earrings dangling from her ears and framing olive cheekbones. Nilaya’s eyes are a luminous shade of almond, and her full lips have been painted a soft pink hue. 

Arthur quickly decides she’s the most beautiful omega he’s ever laid eyes on, and seconds after meeting her and Ravi’s father, Ishan, he also decides she may be his favorite person too when she opens by declaring: “My brother is frequently useless, but I must say, he was quite right when he called Max lovely.”

She’s the type of person that gets away with saying stuff like that, and it doesn’t sound unnecessarily cruel, because her vote and accent are so pleasant.

Ishan is wearing a gold Sherwani, and though he’s a rather striking, dignified-looking man with gray sideburns, he really can’t hold a candle to his wife. 

"How in the world did you and Yusuf come from the same womb?" Eames asks almost immediately, getting to the crux of the matter as only Eames can.

Nilaya’s laughter is like music—chimes dancing in a gentle breeze—and Arthur and Eames may fall a little bit in love with her right then and there. “Isn’t it amazing? Nature really is strange.”

They sit at a long table and discuss the details of the wedding as tray after tray of food are brought to them by their waiter, all of it delicious and served in small metal bowls. The Naan bread is fluffy and warm, and Arthur immediately tears off a chunk and dips it in the Chole bhature. Balancing the chick peas on the bread, he pops it into his mouth and hums appreciatively. “Everything is heavenly,” he praises.

Eames nods affirmatively. “Best Indian food I’ve ever had,” he says, high praise coming from the master chef himself.

Nilaya smiles brightly. “Well, it helps to have it prepared by real-life Indians.”

Arthur feels himself swell with pride when Nilaya and Ishan go on to praise Max endlessly—how brilliant they think he is, how handsome, how polite and thoughtful. He finds himself nodding along rather narcissistically, but it can’t be helped: Arthur agrees. Max is all of those things. It’s a scientific fact.

They return the favor by gushing over Ravi, and once everyone is satisfied the children have been lavishly praised long enough, they return to the matter of the wedding.

"The ceremony will be a traditional Hindu wedding," Nilaya explains. "I’m not devote myself, mind you, but our extended family is, and this is just easier."

Arthur smirks a little and nods. Neither he nor Eames are religious, so that won’t be an issue. “I was wondering if Indian weddings are different than regular Alpha-Omega ceremonies,” he says, reaching for more Naan.

Nilaya smiles, like she thinks Arthur has asked a very clever question. “Ah, not as dissimilar as you might imagine. So first we have the  _Kanyadaan._ Eames, that means you will be giving away Max, like in a traditional Alpha-Omega ceremony.”

When he glances at the alpha, Eames is watching Nilaya thoughtfully, nodding a bit, but Arthur has to look away quickly—back to his Naan bread. He can’t think about that moment too deeply or he’ll start to cry.

"Next, we have the  _Panigrahana_ , which is basically them holding hands in front of a small fire,” Nilaya goes on, “To symbolise their union.”

She picks up the teapot and refills all of their cups before setting it down and adding: “Finally, the  _Saptapadi_. This is the most important ritual of all. Their vows. This part is recited entirely in Sanskrit in long form, usually, though for Max’s sake, we’re sticking with short form. It’s quicker,” she says.

Arthur blinks. “Does…Max doesn’t know Sanskrit, does he?”

Ishan chuckles. “No, but’s he been practising devoutly for several months.”

"He’s been making great progress," Nilaya says encouragingly, smiling. "So they say these vows, and after each of the seven oaths, they perform Anga Pradakshina, which basically means they walk around the fire, with part of each other’s garments tied to one another. And that’s it. Nice, short, simple.”

Eames pauses from molesting the  _Palak paneer_ , a dish made from spinach and cheese, and nods. “Right. Just like an Alpha-Omega ceremony, but with fire.”

Nilaya’s laughter rings out in the restaurant. “That’s my people. Drama, drama, drama.”

***

The day of the wedding, Eames looks unfairly attractive in the Sherwani that has been specially made for him. The jacket is gold, and normally Arthur would advise against Eames wearing gold because the color washes him out, but the Nehru collar that extends up from the shoulders elongates his neck, and gives the whole garb a regal flair. The trousers hug his powerful thighs in a truly indecent way, and Arthur is annoyed because he really doesn’t want to have an erection during his son’s wedding.

"I thought only the groom wears this thing," Jack says, pulling on his own Sherwani. 

Arthur sighs. “Yeah, well, we’re all wearing one.”

His son pauses, and stares into the mirror, though he’s really looking at Arthur—eyes wide in disbelief. “Wait,  _you’re_ wearing one?” he asks, bursting out laughing before Arthur can even answer. “Oh my God. This day is already incredible.”

Jack and Rose’s flight arrived earlier that day, and Rose is busy helping Max with some last minute touches. During the ceremony, their family will stand on Max’s side, and Yusuf, Nilaya, and Ishan will stand on Ravi’s side. This is one of the traditions borrowed from the Alpha-Omega wedding ceremony.

Eames is still checking himself out in the bathroom mirror, and finally Arthur sighs exasperatedly. “Can I get in there any time today? I’d like to make it on time to my youngest son’s wedding, please.”

"Can’t be helped, darling," Eames declares as he slips out of the bathroom. "I feel you should know, once the omegas of this country see how good I look in their clothing, they probably won’t let me leave."

Arthur rolls his eyes and refuses to give Eames the satisfaction of admitting he looks mouthwatering in the Sherwani. Instead, the omega silently slips past him and clicks the door shut.

All the alphas will wear gold Sherwanis, except Ravi, who will be wearing gold and burgundy, at least according to Nilaya. The omega men also wear Sherwanis, but theirs are gold and blue—an intricate pattern of woven colors that is really quite beautiful, Arthur has to admit. Granted, it’s a bit bolder than he’s use to, but he’s able to appreciate it on an aesthetic level, nonetheless.

Arthur changes into the tight pants, and for the first time, he’s grateful for the long coat, because Eames would be an unbearable handful if he saw how his mate’s ass looked in these trousers. Next, he tugs on the plain white tunic, and last, the Sherwani. 

Taking a step back, Arthur examines himself in the bathroom mirror. The colors brighten his face a bit, and he begrudgingly has to admit that the outfit doesn’t look entirely unfortunate.

His suspicions are confirmed when he exits the bathroom and Jack and Eames’ jaws nearly hit the floor.

"Woah," Jack says.

Eames smiles eventually. “Darling, you look smashing.”

Arthur straightens his jacket a little self-consciously. “Really?” he asks, glancing at his reflection again. 

"Yes, absolutely. I’m furious you haven’t been dressing in vibrant colors and bold patterns all the years I’ve known you," Eames says, the smile apparently glued to his lips.

"Yeah, well…Don’t get any wild ideas," Arthur says, slipping into the Khussa shoes. Even their footwear is meticulously carved and decorated. Arthur thinks of his Tanino Criscis resting inside his luggage. By comparison, these shoes make his previous footwear look dull—$1,000-per-pair dull, but still lacklustre.

Eames consults his wristwatch. “Two hours until the ceremony. Cobb and the sprogs in yet?”

Arthur looks up once his shoes are on and nods. “Yeah, they’ll meet us at the hall.”

Ravi’s parents have rented a huge wedding hall for the ceremony and reception, and Arthur has already received three weepy calls from Max, who can’t stop raving about the decorations.

"Right," Eames says, clapping his hands together. "Let’s go then."

***

Max is right. The hall is massive and gorgeously decorated. The carpet is red with gold trimming and both sides of the room are lined with velvet chairs. At the end of the room is a raised platform, framed by four columns. Lotus flowers decorate the stage, and lush fabrics hang from the walls and ceiling. The entire setting is rich and decadent, like Max and Ravi are royalty, and Arthur is surprised by how emotional that thought makes him.

This is nice. While Arthur never wanted an opulent ceremony, he has always hoped Max would have one simply because he knows his son wants a traditional wedding. 

"Wow, this is swank," Jack says from behind him.

"Stay here, I’ll be right back," Arthur says quickly and hurries into a side room where he knows Rose is helping Max get ready.

When he walks into the room, he sees Rose fussing over Max’s attire: a jacket similar to Arthur’s, but with the addition of a beautiful forehead ornament, the _Matha Patti_. With his hair brushed off his face, Max really does look like his double (but younger, of course).

Rose looks over at him, and he must looked wrecked because the first words out of her mouth are: “Oh Jesus, don’t  _you_ start crying. I just got him to stop.” Rose nods to Max, who does indeed look like he’s on the verge of tears just seeing Arthur in the room.

"Don’t cry," Arthur says, walking over to them, and a slow smile spreads across his lips when he looks at Max. "You look wonderful, baby."

"It’s not too much? I told Nilaya it was too much, but she said it’s tradition, so…"

"No, it’s beautiful," Arthur says, his voice wavering.

"Oh God," Rose sighs, brushing Max’s shoulders, smoothing out the fabric.

Rose is dressed in a pink  _Ghagra Choli_ , the flowing fabric hanging off one shoulder, and extending to the floor. The dress is stitched with images of delicate white flowers. 

"Hush," Arthur says, leaning over to hug his daughter in greeting before he grabs Max in a tight embrace. 

He really doesn’t mean to cry, but the second he hugs Max, Arthur dissolves into tears, which of course sets Max off again, and Rose ends up having to pry them apart. “Dad,” she hisses. “Don’t make me throw you out of here.”

Arthur tries to behave himself after that.

He watches Rose ready Max for half an hour, and then slips outside to begin greeting the guests.

Cobb looks exactly like he’s just gotten off a 25-hour flight, but he puts on a pleasant expression when he hugs Arthur in greeting. “Wow, you look great,” he says, laughter in his voice as he takes in the sight of his very serious former point man draped in flashy garb. 

Arthur grins and hugs Phillipa and James, who look considerably perkier than their father. 

"This place is amazing," says Phillipa, gazing around the room with wide eyes. 

"Thanks," Arthur says, even though he really can’t take credit for the decorations. 

Just then, Ariadne enters the room, and Arthur laughs happily when she throws her arms around him in a tight hug. 

"Wow, great timing," he says, referring to the Cobb’s recently arrival.

"Huh? Oh, we were on the same flight," she says, smiling tightlipped and averting her gaze.

Arthur nods slowly, looking from Ariadne to Cobb, who curiously also refuses to look at him.

 _Interesting_.

Arthur decides to research into that curious development later.

"You guys have seats in the front. There are name cards on the seats," Arthur adds when he spots Eames on the other side of the room, chatting with Edward, Patrick, and Peter. 

He excuses himself and crosses the room to stand by his mate.

"Arthur!" Patrick cries happily, grabbing him in an enthusiastic hug. "Gosh, this is exciting, isn’t it? I mean, a wedding in India? I haven’t ever been to India before. Wow, you look gorgeous. Is this silk?" he asks, touching Arthur’s jacket.

Arthur laughs. “I have no idea. Honestly, Ravi’s mom planned most of this. We’re just hanging on for the ride.”

Edward grins. “Never mess with an omega mother, right?”

"Damn right," he answers, smirking.

"Where is Ravi, anyway?" Peter asks, eyes scanning the room.

"With Ishan and Yusuf, that way," Eames says, pointing to another door on their side of the room. "He can’t see Max before the wedding, or there’ll be six more months of winter, or something."

Edward snickers. “You’re holding up well, considering you’re about to give your youngest away.”

"He’s in denial," Arthur answers for him.

"I’m not in bloody denial," Eames sighs, but then he excuses himself to go say hello to the Cobbs, and Arthur thinks it’s a diversion tactic.

***

He’s proven right minutes later when they all have to gather in the side room before they walk out to the main hall, and reenter the ceremony area through the front doors. 

It starts when Jack walks into the room, sees Max, and swears loudly. There’s a flurry of movement, and suddenly they’re hugging, and Max is crying against his brother’s shoulder, and Rose keeps saying: “Fuck.  _Shit_. Stop crying. Goddamnit.”

Eames steps into the room half a second later, and seems to slip into shock when he sees their youngest in full wedding regalia. 

"Oh.." is all he says when he can see Max unobstructed, after Jack finally lets go of his brother.

Max stands there: unsure, shy, and totally beautiful. Arthur manages not to cry looking at his son this time, but quickly forgets that’s the goal when Eames grabs Max in a tight bear hug, picking him up, as he murmurs: “Ducky…I can’t believe it.”

Arthur starts crying again, but Rose doesn’t yell at him this time. She simply stands by him and gently rubs his back.

Max clings to Eames until they make him let go because he has to get married in a couple minutes. “You’re walking me down the aisle, right?” he sniffles, and it’s a totally unnecessary question, because that’s been the plan since day one, and everyone knows it. Max just wants to be comforted by the sound of Eames’ voice.

"I’ll be beside you the whole time," Eames promises when Rose steps back in again to gently pat Max’s cheeks with a tissue.

***

The main wedding party queues outside the front doors when they’re shut, and wait for the music to serve as a warning. Inside the hall, a live band plays traditional tunes on the Santoor, Tabla, and Sitar.

Jack and Rose will enter first, followed by Yusuf, Nilaya and Ishan, then Arthur, Ravi, and finally Eames and Max.

Arthur stays with Max and Eames until the last possible second before he kisses Max on the cheek, whispers, “I love you. Good luck,” and darts outside before he misses his cue.

By the time it’s his turn to walk down the aisle, mostly everyone is gathered on either side of the raised platform—the alpha’s family on the right, which means Arthur will veer to the left and stand beside Rose to the side of the alter. He reminds himself not to walk too quickly—to time his steps to match the beat of the music, and he flashes a smile when he looks up and sees Cobb and Ariadne watching him fondly.

Arthur comes to a stop at the alter, and Rose discreetly hands him a tissue because she’s always been a kind, practical young lady. 

Ravi enters next, so handsome in his gold and burgundy Sherwani, the vibrant fabric making his skin and hair shine all the more luminously. He smiles brightly when he sees the room filled with friends and loved ones, and Ravi nods at Arthur because it’s the only sign of recognition he can risk without his mother later batting his ear for breaking form.

Finally, the music picks up, and the guests stand because it’s time for Max to enter the room.

Arthur takes a deep breath and he feels Rose gently squeeze his arm, a silent gesture of reassurance.

When Eames and Max appear in the doorway, and his gaze briefly locks with the alpha’s, Arthur smiles. 

Max is lovely—the overheard lights catching the  _Matha Patti,_ giving the omega an ethereal appearance. Clinging to Eames’ arm, Max slowly walks down the aisle with his father, and Arthur can tell by his body language that their son is terrified. Max has never enjoyed being in large groups, or being the center of attention, but his eyes are fixated ahead of him—at the alter, specifically  _on Ravi_ , and when Arthur looks at the groom, Ravi is smiling with joy.

Eames is breathing in a very slow, deliberate way, and no one but Arthur will fully understand what that means. He’s only see the alpha do it once—when he got shot in Thailand, but he tried to put on a brave face for Arthur, back when they were still dancing around each other, and hadn’t mated yet.

Arthur mimics the slow in and out of Eames’ breath, and once again deludes himself into believing he has his emotions under control.

But then Eames and Max pause before the alter. The alpha cups their youngest’s face affectionately and tenderly kisses his brow, and Arthur has to make quick use of the tissue Rose handed him when tears spill down his cheeks. 

Very faintly, he hears Eames whisper: “Love you, ducky,” and Max smiles at him, tears brimming in his eyes, as he mouths:  _Love you_.

Eames turns, presenting Max to Ravi, and the alphas shake hands before Eames joins the omega’s side of the alter. Standing beside Arthur, Eames reaches down and grabs his hands, fingers lacing, and Arthur leans against his side subtly. He needs to feel Eames’ solid weight beside him, and he knows that his mate needs the same thing right now.

Maybe it’s the lavish decorations, or the exotic location, or the fact that this is their little Max getting married, but the whole affair has a very surreal quality. Arthur hasn’t felt like this in ages, and he’s seized by the desire to check his totem. Except, the loaded die has been gathering dust for a couple decades in the bedside table back home. 

But Arthur doesn’t need the totem anymore because he has Eames.

He holds his mate’s hand through the  _Panigrahana_  and the  _Saptapadi_ , and Arthur smiles proudly when Max smoothly, although a little quietly, recites the Sanskrit. When he glances at Eames, the same pride shines on the alpha’s face. 

Ishan performs the simple task of narrating the wedding, which is probably for the benefit of the western guests. As the couple repeats the vows, they perform Anga Pradakshina, the walk around the fire, tied together.

Arthur notices that lost, frightened expression fades from Max’s face every time he looks at Ravi, and the thought comforts him—that Max now has his own anchor in this world that is independent of Arthur and Eames. He tells himself that’s a good thing. One day, they’ll be gone, but Ravi will take care of Max and their children.

That’s how it should be.

The next time Arthur looks at Eames, the alpha’s face is wet with tears, and he sighs. “Fucking hell,” Eames whispers beneath his breath, just loud enough for Arthur to hear.

Squeezing Eames’ hand, he murmurs: “I know.”

Everything is as is should be, but that doesn’t make it any easier.

When the walk is over, Ishan announces that Max and Ravi are wed, and Max has magically transformed from Max Eames to, “Max Lalla.”

Everyone claps, Rose whistles loudly, and Arthur clings to Eames—too overcome to do either. Luckily, Eames seems to be on the same page because he hugs the omega tightly, nose and mouth buried in his hair.

***

Afterwards, there’s a big reception dinner in another room with equally sumptuous decorations. There’s rich food, and a cake, and when everyone is stuffed and happy, the waiting staff comes out and serves chai tea. Max and Ravi are inundated with well-wishers, and gifts, and Ravi keeps sweeping Max onto the dance floor. Jack cuts a rug with the available omega ladies, and Rose even allows Peter a dance or two.

Arthur briefly says hello to Edward and Patrick, and hugs the omega tightly when Pat openly weeps against his shoulder, then hiccups an apology—something about being no good at weddings.

Later, Arthur and Eames duck outside with Cobb so the alphas can enjoy a cigar on the patio.

"That seemed rough," Cobb says, exhaling a ring of smoke into the air before passing the cigar back to Eames.

Arthur scoffs as he leans against the patio banister. “It really was,” he says, squinting up at the night sky. “You tell yourself they’re adults, and you’re ready to send them off, but they’re still your kids, you know?”

Cobb nods thoughtfully. “I know exactly what you mean.”

Eames puffs on the cigar, lets the smoke swim in his mouth a beat, and then exhales it in a controlled stream. Normally, Arthur would nag him about smoking, but it’s just one cigar, and it’s after their son’s wedding, so he doesn’t want to spoil the celebration.

"I’m glad, though," the alpha says, nodding to the glass double doors, through which the party is visible. "Ravi is a good man. I know Jack and Rose will be fine, but I always worried about Max."

Cobb accepts the cigar from the other alpha and nods. “And what will you two be up to now?”

Arthur takes a deep breath, but he doesn’t answer. Quite honestly, he’d been so busy with the kids, and then courtships, and weddings that he hadn’t really thought to plan anything, which for Arthur, is tantamount to saying he forgot to breathe air. When he looks at his mate, Eames looks equally at a loss for words. 

For the first times in their lives, neither Arthur or Eames have planned a next move.

Cobb interprets their silence as a cue to keep talking. “Might I suggest a job?”

"Oh Lord," Eames laughs, shaking his head. "The last time you said that, I recall we got into a spot of trouble."

Arthur grins, but he can’t ignore the way his heart races in his chest. Being here—with Eames and Cobb—feels like old times, and now he doesn’t have the excuse of his children to keep him out of the business any longer. And if he is to be perfectly honest, Arthur misses dreaming. More specifically, he misses  _creating_ with Eames, and he’d give anything to see his mate forge again.

Judging by the way Eames is eyeing Cobb, he feels the same way. “I thought you were out of the business.”

Cobb shrugs, aiming for casual. “Someone recently convinced me to come out of retirement.”

Arthur flashes back to Ariadne walking in to the wedding hall, her gaze inexplicably shy when Arthur inquired about her shared flight with Cobb. “Uh-huh. I can guess who that is,” he smirks.

Cobb ignores him. “It’ll be great. Like old times.”

Eames shakes his head when Cobb tries to hand him the cigar again, but it’s only a rejection of the tobacco, and not the deal. 

Arthur is already making checklists in his head, and he flips back into point man role so easily that it startles him a little bit. He’d thought he had shed his old persona, but it appears as though dreamshare Arthur was just standing in the shadows, waiting.

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t notice the doors open, and Yusuf slip outside, until the man speaks: “What’re you lot up to?”

"We’re getting the band back together," Eames says, winking at Arthur.

Arthur smirks, and Yusuf doesn’t skip a beat when he accepts the cigar from Cobb and replies: “About bloody time.”


	29. Jack is a player...kind of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack is a player...kind of.
> 
> (takes place Jack's Freshman year at college)

Jack has been at the University of Kentucky for a couple months when Arthur and Eames decide to pay him a visit on campus. At the last possible minute (literally, Arthur is parking the car,) Jack rushes around his room, which he shares with another alpha named Paul, tidying up the place.

Official university policy is that alphas can only room with other alphas, betas with betas, and omegas with other omegas, but Paul is a pretty easygoing guy for an alpha, and they have a lot in common because he also starts on the football team.

Paul passively watches him from the lower bunk bed as Jack stacks papers, throws his dirty laundry in the hamper, and at the last possible second, remembers to hide a strip of condoms deep, deep in his sock drawer.

"Don’t tell me your folks think you’re a virgin," Paul asks, smirking.

Jack scowls at him. “Uh, no, but I don’t want to talk about sex with them at all, okay? Gross,” he mumbles, and briefly considers clearing his internet browser history, but then his cellphone buzzes in his pocket with a call from Eames.

 

***

He shows his parents around the dorm, and part of campus, pointing out the uninteresting landmarks of his academic life:  _here’s where I go for English, for Math, for Physics_. Jack doesn’t really get into the tour until he takes them to Commonwealth stadium, home of the Wildcats, and his second home. The place is a massive concrete shell, containing the lush green field where Jack does some of his finest work.

Eames lets out an impressed whistle when Jack leads them through the home team’s tunnel down to the field, even though his father has seen the place before. “Not bad, Jacky,” he crows, looking up at the rows of empty bleachers.

"You guys gotta come to a game," Jack says. "It’s crazy when the place is filled. The ground shakes and everything. It’s nuts."

"We want to," Arthur says quickly, smiling at him. "But we’ve watched all your games on TV."

"You’ve got a game next Thursday, yeah?" Eames asks, squinting at his son.

Jack nods quickly. “Yeah, against Oklahoma.” 

Eames hums thoughtfully. “We can stay in town until then.”

When Arthur nods in response, Jack grins toothily.

Back at the dorm, Paul does his best impression of a respectable young man, shaking his parents’ hands politely, and referring to them each as “Sir,” and everything, even as Jack watches him with a quirked brow throughout the whole pathetic display.

His roomie scrams eventually, and actually has the balls to say, “So you guys can have more room to stretch out and get comfortable,” before disappearing in a puff of lies.

"What a nice young man," Arthur says, cluelessly, once he’s gone, but misses Jack rolling his eyes.

"Uh, yeah. He’s not bad."

Jack tinkers online, while Arthur sits on the lower bunk bed and leafs through the course catalogue, occasionally pausing to ask Jack questions, while Eames looks at the photos affixed to the dorm room wall. They’re largely innocuous, though there are a few post-game party pictures of Jack posed with some of the cheerleaders, beer can in hand. His father is kind enough not to point out he’s drinking underage, or clearly sowing his wild oats, though.

There isn’t much to do on-campus with non-students, so Jack suggests they go to a restaurant somewhere else in town. Lexington is a fairly cosmopolitan city, with enough of a fine dinning selection to satisfy even Arthur, who (naturally) selects a pricey steakhouse. Jack immediately starts salivating the second he brings up the restaurant’s menu on his laptop. This will be the first time in a month that he’s eaten something other than cafeteria food.

They’re just about to leave his room when someone knocks on the door. When Jack opens it, Marcy is standing in the hallway. The slight brunette smiles brightly at him. “Hey, Jack. Wanna get some food?”

"Um…" Jack says, leaning against the doorframe. "Can’t. My folks are here…"

"Hello," Eames says, gazing over Jack’s shoulder to get a look at Marcy, like the snoop he is. "I’m Eames. Lovely to meet you, my dear," he says, turning up the English accent, as he shakes her hand.

Marcy flushes in surprise and giggles before responding. “Oh my gosh. I’m sorry. Jack didn’t mention you’d be visiting.”

"Must have slipped his mind," Arthur says, seemingly manifesting from thin air when he’s suddenly at Jack’s side, and shaking Marcy’s hand. "And you are…?"

"Marcy. It’s so nice to meet you. Jack told me all about you."

What goes unsaid, but hangs in the air thick, like tar, is:  _Jack never told us about you_.

"How nice," Eames purrs. "Marcy, would you like to have dinner with us?"

Jack’s face burns in embarrassment, and he hopes no one notices, and also that his quasi-kind-of-not-really girlfriend is also telepathic and can hear his breathless plea as he repetitively (and silently) wishes for her to say no, no, no…

"I shouldn’t," Marcy, the beauty, says after three of the most painful seconds of his young life. "I’m just gonna get a quick bite, and then I have to study."

"Good for you," Arthur says, giving Jack’s shoulder a semi-gentle squeeze. "Our boy can learn a lot from you."

Marcy flashes them a pretty smile, says her goodbyes, and disappears down the hallway.

No one says anything, deliberately, because his fathers want him to stew in his own misery.

Finally, Eames speaks, his voice light and carefree: “I see attraction to brunettes runs in the family.”

***

Arthur drills him on the way to their car.

"Why didn’t you mention her?"

"Because it’s not serious dad, okay?" he groans, looking around, just in case Marcy, or one of her gossipy friends, is standing outside.

"Oh, so you’re just casually dating her? How many other girls are you dating?"

Jack’s face burns again when he hisses: “ _Dad_ …”

A car door slamming diverts their attention. “Jack!”

When he looks across the lot, a buxom blonde girl is waving at him.  _Shit_. “Hey, Beth,” he says, smiling and waving in what he hopes is a carefree, unburdened fashion.

"Hey you," she says, flashing her white smile, as she walks over to them, each step packed with the limitless pep required of university cheerleaders. "Oh my God. Are these your parents?" she squeaks.

Arthur stares at Jack, jaw tensing, while Eames offers his most stunning smile. “Why, hello, my dear. Yes indeed. So charmed to meet you. My son has a photo of you in his room.”

Jack wants to die.

Beth practically squeals. “Oh my God! Jack! You never told me your dad is English.”

***

He slumps miserably in the backseat as Eames drives them to the restaurant, and Arthur occasionally casts disapproving glances back at him, reminding Jack of when he’d get in trouble at school. Whenever both his parents showed up to talk to the principal, Jack always knew he was in for a miserable lecture.

"Are you just…leading these girls on?" Arthur asks finally.

Jack immediately groans, like he’s been stabbed. “Oh my God.  _No_ , dad. It’s just casual dating. You know, because I’m in college?”

"Are you using protection?"

Jack cries out in horror. “Yes!”

That apparently isn’t the response Arthur wanted because he still looks disappointed.

Eames clears his throat to intervene. “I get it, you know. I was the same way, but you’ve got to be sure you don’t overlook your mate because you’re so busy playing the field.”

Apparently, the alpha naively believed his words would defuse the situation, but instead, Arthur levels his icy gaze on Eames instead of Jack. “What do you mean _you were the same way_? Just how many omegas did you nail?”

Jack nearly swallows his own tongue, torn because the terrible reality that he’s about to hear the details of his father’s sex life, but also immense relief that Eames has accidentally redirected Arthur’s wrath from him.

***

Dinner progresses in silence until they get their first course, and Eames and Jack forget to eat because they’re so preoccupied watching Arthur aggressively dissect his steak like it’s personally wronged him.

"You can’t just…use omegas. Some of these girls might get attached, Jack. And also, you’re supposed to be focused on football and studying, not on….these…dalliances."

"Dandelions?" Jack asks, confused.

"No..not—" Arthur sighs, exasperated. "You shouldn’t use omegas."

"I’m not using them," Jack says, frowning. He doesn’t know why Arthur thinks he’s hurting anyone, but Jack really doesn’t think he is.

"Jacky," Eames says, sighing. "We just don’t want you to miss out on finding a mate. I’m lucky I met Arthur when I was older, but I’m afraid if I’d met him when I was your age, I might have been too self-absorbed to notice."

The tension between his parents dissipates slightly when Arthur flashes a soft smile at Eames. 

Jack rolls his eyes. “Well, did it ever occur to you guys that I’m happy, and maybe I’m not you, and I like my life?”

Arthur looks away from his mate to stare at Jack. “That’s not the point—”

"And also, that I’m getting really good grades, for once, and also kicking ass in the games, and maybe you should be proud of me instead of lecturing me?"

It’s a ballsy strategy—one that could potentially land him in a heap of trouble, but Jack doesn’t care. He’s really proud of his accomplishments, and he’s having fun with Marcy and Beth, and he knows for a fact that they’re having fun too. Sex doesn’t always have to be a serious, scary thing. Sometimes, it’s something shared between young people figuring out who they are.

The large, dark eyes of his father watch him for an eternity before Arthur nods slowly. “You’re right,” he says, and if Jack is surprised by the answer, his response is nothing compared to the disbelieving gape of Eames, who can probably count the number of times Arthur has admitted to being wrong on one hand. Arthur either misses their shocked reactions, or chooses to ignore them, because he shrugs casually. “You’re an adult now. It’s none of my business.”

Jack nods tentatively. “Um…thanks.”

Arthur points his steak knife in the air, at Jack: “But if your grades slip…” he says, waving the blade in a disconcertingly vague way.

"They won’t," Jack says quickly, grinning.


	30. Max is pregnant. Jack has big news. Arthur isn't happy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max is pregnant. Jack has big news. Arthur isn't happy.

Even though they rented the apartment, Arthur and Eames spend most of their days at the house, and almost entirely stop going back to the apartment. Arthur sleeps on the couch, while Eames endures the air mattress he inflates nightly and sets up in the middle of the living room. They adhere to this new schedule without complaint because it becomes immediately clear that Max needs their help in almost every facet of his pregnancy.

 

Pat and Ed have agreed to check on their home in California just to make sure they haven't been robbed, or there isn't a gas leak, or some other catastrophic possibility. Pat is instructed to collect the mail until they return, which will be whenever Max has the twins.

 

He's bigger than Arthur was at three months, which makes sense of course because he's carrying two babies. As a result, Max has a very hard time navigating around the house, so he spends a lot of time stationed on the couch in the living room with the rest of them moving around him like planets orbiting the sun. Arthur sits with his son, rubbing Max's poor, swollen ankles, like Eames used to him for him during his pregnancies, and the alpha spends hours in the kitchen cooking and preparing lavish meals that thankfully Max gobbles up eagerly.

 

He's finally in the normal range of weight, plus five additional pounds that makes his cheeks look a little puffy. Clearly, Ravi thinks Max looks adorable because he keeps taking photos of the omega, and the swell of his stomach, even when Max scowls warningly at him. Max glares, and Ravi smiles brightly. "Gorgeous, priya," he coos obliviously.

 

Sitting beside Max, Arthur smiles secretly at the couple's rapport because it reminds him so much of how he and Eames behaved when they were newlyweds. 

 

The kitchen hums with Eames' kinetic energy, sounds of banging pots and clicking knife blades floating from the space until heavenly scents waft into the main room, and Arthur inevitably follows them back to the stove. He usually finds Eames hunched over the stove, peering into a pot, or into the oven as his delicious creations marinate and bake.

 

"What are you making for us today?" Arthur asks, smiling.

 

Eames' face is flushed, but he beams at Arthur over his shoulder. "Grilled Branzino and petite filet mignon. Oh, and duck-chestnut ravioli."

 

"Mm…" Arthur hums, even though he only understands around every other word of Eames' menu. "Duck for ducky, hm?" he asks, grinning crookedly at his mate. He's able to do that—smile—these days. His injuries are healed, even his nose, which isn't crooked from the ordeal of having it broken by Browning, and later reset by a doctor Arthur never even met.

 

Eames' snorts at the omega's terrible joke. "I suppose so. Any foods making him ill these days that I should know about?"

 

Max is at the stage where he's developing odd reactions to normally banal food. For example, last week he'd nearly gagged when Arthur presented him with a banana. Arthur shakes his head. "Not really. Though, he said smelling lemons gives him a headache. Is there lemon in anything?" he asks, peering into the pots.

 

Eames hums thoughtfully. "Don't think so," he murmurs, shuffling closer so he can press his nose and mouth against the crook of Arthur's neck. "You smell good," he murmurs, apropos of nothing.

 

Arthur smirks, moving away from him. "Behave," he warns. He'll need to rush back into the living room any second, no doubt, to help Max shift positions on the couch, or change the channel, or rub his stomach and tell him how well he's doing.

 

The alpha makes a displeased sound, but his eyes shine mischievously when he eyes Arthur. "When can we go back to the apartment?"

 

Lately, they've only been going back to their rented space for a desperate shag. Sometimes, when Max slips into a mid-afternoon slumber, Arthur sprints to find Eames, and they break all kinds of vehicular laws peeling out of the driveway and flying across town to their apartment. They barely making it through the door before tearing at each other's clothes, and sometimes they rut right there on the apartment floor, which luckily is padded with plush carpeting. 

 

"Soon," Arthur promises, reaching towards one of the pots where a wooden spoon extends into the air. He stirs the sauce, smiling when Eames leans over to kiss his neck again.

 

It might be a lie. Max needs him more than ever these days, but he wants to believe it's true. He misses being alone with Eames. He misses their home. But, Arthur also takes his duties as Max's helper gravely seriously, so when his youngest calls from the next room _Dad?_ , Arthur pulls away from Eames, smirks in answer to the alpha's pout, hands him the spoon, and hurries into the living room.

 

***

 

Max knows things have entered an accelerated stage, from which there is no return, when he tries to put on his socks one morning and realizes he can't. 

 

He's dressed in only pajama bottoms as he sits on the edge of the bed, and when bending over becomes impossible, he frowns at his swollen belly. For the past couple months, it has seemed like every day he discovers something else he can't do, but lately, it's more like finding out two or even _three_ tasks are now inaccessible to Max and his stupid, misshapen form.

 

Between his distended stomach and slightly convex chest, his center of gravity is all thrown off, and Max has been overcompensating by arching his back, which frequently throbs in objection. Ravi gives him back rubs, and when his mate isn't around, Arthur takes over those duties, and yet Max still aches and whines much of the day.

 

Fortunately, his professors have all been wonderful and understanding, permitting Helen to bring him her notes, and course work, so he doesn't fall behind in his last year. When he does manage to waddle his way into the lecture hall, Max sits at the back of the room on a folding chair, and Helen sits beside him to fill him in on what he's missed, and also to touch and rub his belly a weird amount.

 

"So I'll, like, be an aunt?" she whispers to him earnestly one day in class.

 

Max eyes her like she's insane. "Uh, no. We're not related."

 

Helen rolls her eyes. "Duh, but the baby will call me Aunt Helen, right?"

 

Max furrows his brow as he thinks. Technically, Aunt Ariadne isn't related to him by blood, and when Max didn't have any friends, Helen went out of her way to make him feel like he had a community and support system. 

 

"Sure," he says, smiling. 

 

_Why not?_

 

Max glares at his socks, and extends one leg at a time to eye his toes. They're not that far away, he tells himself. He can do this. 

 

He ends up sprawled on his back across the mattress, desperately whipping the sock up towards his foot in a hopeless attempt to hook the opening around his toes.

 

Several minutes later, Ravi finds him collapsed on the bed, panting, glaring hostilely at his mate when the alpha bursts out laughing. "Aw, priya," he says with great affection in his voice. "I can do that for you, love," Ravi says as he sits on the edge of the bed and picks up Max's socks.

 

"No," Max replies sullenly. "I have to do it myself," he mumbles, squinting accusatorially at the socks in Ravi's hands. 

 

Max forgets to be furious at his puffy figure and bare feet when Ravi lays down beside him, and presses his mouth against the hard curve of Max's stomach. "Priya," his mate purrs in a way that makes Max flush and smile brightly in response. "You're so beautiful," he adds, placing a trail of warm, wet kisses alone the omega's belly and between Max's breasts.

 

He gasps when Ravi nears the mammary glands, which have been so sensitive lately. The alpha cups one of Max's breasts gently, massaging it with his fingers, and the attention feels so good that he moans softly in response. 

 

Ever since he's started gaining weight, Ravi has taken a sudden interest in Max's new breasts. Initially, the attention embarrassed Max, and he's swat away his mate with some gentle chastising, but Ravi was insistent, and after a while, he began to understand that the appearance of his chest wasn't an entirely unfortunate turn of events. For example, Max goes hard almost immediately the second Ravi grips his hard nipple between his fingers and squeezes it carefully.

 

He moans throatily, and suddenly Ravi is gone, the bed springing up from the absence of his weight. Max whimpers in distress, but the sound dies in his throat when he sees his mate has only gone to shut the bedroom door.

 

No need to wake Arthur and Eames downstairs, after all.

 

"We have to be quiet," Max whispers as the alpha pulls his pajama pants off his legs.

 

"I want you like this, priya," Ravi says, ignoring Max's command as he helps the omega roll onto his hands and knees. This position is easier on his back, and allows Ravi to reach around and grip his breasts while they rut, which he also enjoys quite a bit.

 

"Ravi…" Max warns again, but thoughts of decency and silence fly out of his brain when the alpha pushes his cock inside with a single thrust. "Ah!" he cries, slumping forward to shove his ass into the air.

 

Between the creaking of the springs, and pounding of headboard against the wall, they end up making a terrible racket, but if Arthur or Eames hear anything, they're good enough not to mention it when Max and Ravi sheepishly descend the steps an hour later.

 

***

 

The four of them fall into a nice routine of mutual support those first few months before some unexpected guests turn up to throw everything into a tailspin. 

 

On an otherwise ordinary Monday afternoon, the doorbell rings, and Eames shouts that he'll get it. Drying his hands with a kitchen towel, he crosses the living room, throws open the front door, and is surprised to find Jack standing there.

 

His eldest is dressed in a dark blue pea coat, and looks a bit hesitant as he offers a tight-lipped smile. When Eames glances down, he sees a large duffle bag resting at his feet.

 

"Jacky," Eames says, surprised.

 

"Heya, dad," he replies, bouncing nervously on his toes. "Thought I'd come for a visit."

 

Eames smiles brightly. "How nice. Come in, come in," he encourages, stepping aside so Jack can come in from the cold. "I thought you had training this month?"

 

Jack sets down his bag just inside the door and unbuttons his jacket. "Uh, yeah," he says, gazing around the living room, which he hasn't seen since Arthur fully furnished the place. "I mean, no. Coach let me take some time. I wanted to come see Max," he says, looking at the fireplace mantel and the framed photos there—really anywhere that isn't at his father.

 

Eames furrows his brow, but doesn't have time to pick apart his son's story because Arthur walks down the stairs, eyes widening in shock when he sees their eldest. "Jack!" he cries happily, running towards the alpha and throwing his arms around Jack's neck in an enthusiastic hug. 

 

Jack laughs loudly and locks his arms around Arthur's waist, picking up his father off the ground. "Happy to see me?" he laughs.

 

Arthur's face glows when he cups Jack's face to look at him. "So happy. Let me go get your brother."

 

Ravi has to help Max down the stairs, and they all wait patiently at the bottom of the staircase as he takes each step slowly. He won't be able to make it up and down the stairs at all soon, and they'll have to set up a temporary bedroom on the first floor for him. No one tells him that Jack is waiting for him by the fireplace, so when Max rounds the corner, gripping Ravi's elbow, his expression transforms from confusion at seeing his parents weirdly hovering by the steps, to shocked glee when he sees his brother standing there.

 

"Shut up!" he laughs loudly when Jack first rushes forward, but then stops just shy of hugging him.

 

"Holy fuck, you're huge!" Jack laughs, touching Max's belly fondly before stepping to the side a bit so he can hug him gently.

 

"I know," Max sighs. "Twins," he adds in explanation with a roll of his eyes.

 

Jack smirks and shakes his head a little. When Max told him news of the twins via phone, Jack spent the better part of three minutes shouting in joy, and then forced Max to promise he'd name one of the kids after him. (Max finally caved, but he didn't really mean it).

 

"Heya, Ravi," Jack says, smiling when he moves to his brother-in-law to hug him as well.

 

"Hey, mate," Ravi says, but his brow is furrowed a bit in confusion. "Are you on break?"

 

The winter holidays aren't for another month, and Jack should at the very least still be on-campus to run drills with his team. He takes a deep breath and laughs. "Uh, not exactly. I just took some time off. Wanted to see Maxie."

 

Eames glances at Arthur, who also doesn't look like he's buying Jack's casual explanation. The only person who seems to be oblivious to the tension in the room is Max, who is gazing at his brother like he hung the moon. "This is so great. How long can you stay?"

 

Jack shrugs and smiles slightly. "How long do you need me?"

 

***

 

Eames cooks a ridiculously lavish meal for dinner, and afterwards Arthur and Ravi clean the dishes, while Max sprawls out on the couch and watches television.

 

He finds Jack on the back porch, sneaking a cigarette.

 

"Still smoking?" he asks, grinning when Jack jumps a little in surprise.

 

Leaning against the railing, Jack smirks sheepishly. "Uh, yeah. Not a lot. Just when I'm stressed."

 

Eames hums in understanding, glances over his shoulder to the backdoor and waves at Jack's hand. "Here," he says, taking a quick drag from the cigarette before handing it back to his son. "Don't tell your dad," he says with a wink.

 

Jack smirks. "I won't," he promises quietly, butting out the cigarette and pocketing it to throw away later. He's never been able to smoke in front of his father without feeling a tremendous amount of guilt. 

 

"So…" Eames says, squinting up at the dark sky and the few visible stars. "What happened?"

 

Jack sighs loudly, but his shoulders relax minutely as soon as Eames verbalises what they've all been thinking. He's an absolutely terrible actor, and of course his fathers immediately saw through the thin facade of his excuse. It's true that he wanted to see Max, but that's not the whole reason he drove to Massachusetts without as much as a phone call to his brother or parents.

 

Eames is silent, partly in support, but also to draw the truth out of Jack, who finally caves and says (in a single breath): "I don't want to play football anymore. I'm really sorry."

 

Whatever Eames was expecting him to say (he's failing his courses, he got an omega pregnant, he got suspended from the team for fighting with another alpha), Eames was not braced for that confession. He stares in surprise at Jack, hands shoved in he pockets of his cardigan. "Fucking hell…" he finally says, laughing a little, though there's no happiness in the sound.

 

This isn't the first time Jack has asked to "take a break" from school, though this is the first time he's phrased it as dropping out entirely. He's the team's best quarterback, so the university generously offered to pull some strings and allow Jack to put his course work on hold while he played football for the school. That arrangement officially came to an end this year. If Jack doesn't graduate this year, he doesn't graduate at all, and all his hard work will have been for nothing.

 

"I know," Jack says quietly, wincing.

 

"Jacky, you're on a football scholarship. If you stop playing, you can't get a degree," Eames says, making sure to keep his voice lowered so Arthur won't hear them through the kitchen window.

 

Jack licks his lips, nodding as he listens to his father. It's true. He won't be able to graduate. These are all consequences he had plenty of time to mull over during the fourteen-hour drive from Kentucky to Massachusetts. "I know," he mumbles. "And I didn't want you and dad to think I'm being ungrateful, or irresponsible, by dropping out because I know how hard you worked just to get me into a school—"

 

" _You_ worked hard," Eames interrupts. "Not us, mate. You earned it. Do you want to throw it all away?"

 

Jack sighs, shrugging. "I'm not happy, dad. I don't like the practices. I get a thrill during the games, but it's not enough. I don't love it like I used to."

 

Eames pauses, craning his head to the side a bit to crack his neck. He's rethinking his approach to convincing Jack this is a mad idea, and he's throwing his life away. Jack doesn't seem temporarily disillusioned. He seems genuinely unhappy—like he's already made up his mind.

 

"Also…" Jack says.

 

" _Also_?" Eames echoes, a little unkindly. His laughter is dry. "Jesus, mate."

 

"Yeah…" Jack says shyly, smiling regretfully (in silent apology) at his poor father. "I can't stop thinking about dreaming—about what I could do in the dreams—"

 

Eames' eyes widen. " _No_ ," he growls, cutting off Jack immediately. "Are you bloody _kidding_ me with this?" he hisses. "After everything your father has been through? You're going to kill him if you tell Arthur you're dropping out to go into dreamshare."

 

Jack looks a little like he's seeing his worst nightmare play out in front of him when Eames recreates so angrily. "There's legal ways to do it. Uncle Dom was saying—"

 

"I don't care what bloody _Cobb_ says," Eames says, voice raising slightly. "I'm your father. I say no. End of conversation," he concludes, louder still, and when he storms back into the house, he may slam the door behind him, judging by the startled reaction of Arthur.

 

The omega's shirt sleeves are rolled to the elbows, collar undone to reveal a bit of his clavicle, and there's a cluster of soap suds on his forearm. He looks adorable, and normally Eames would take advance of his dishevelled state, but he's too angry right now.

 

"What's wrong?" Arthur asks, brow furrowed.

 

Eames doesn't even know where to start, and frankly he's still hoping Jack is suffering from a fever, or temporary madness, and all of this will go away after a good night's rest. "Nothing," he mumbles, then walks into the living room to spend the rest of the night seated by Max, rubbing the omega's swollen ankles.

 

***

 

Their second unexpected guest arrives just in time to save Jack's life.

 

The following morning, Jack confronts Eames in the kitchen and announces he plans to tell Arthur about his decision to drop out and pursue a career in dreamshare. Eames is gripping a coffee filter at the time, which he promptly balls up in his fist. "Mate, do you have a death wish?" Eames asks, a handful of seconds before Arthur walks into the room wearing a lovely robe that probably cost more than Max and Ravi's house (Eames would know. He has the bills for both purchases).

 

Arthur eyes his son and mate, who are busily examine the floor and wallpaper, respectively. "Okay, what's going on?" he sighs, gripping the back of one of the chairs.

 

Because Eames still loves his son, he wants to tell him to run—to throw his body against the back door, knocking it off the hinges, and to sprint across the yard to freedom. He's a fast young man. If he's really lucky, he'll be able to outrun Arthur.

 

But Jack is bullheaded (it's one of the unfortunate traits he's inherited from Eames,) and so he tells Arthur the truth—in the starkest terms possible. What he actually says is: "I'm dropping out to become a forger."

 

The balled up filter in his hand gets a bit damp as Eames begins to profusely perspire. He watches Arthur's face closely, but it's always hard to read the omega in times of crisis. The angrier he gets, the calmer the sea's surface becomes. Usually, the waters have stilled because a Kraken is preparing to unleash hell on them all. It's very unnerving. Right now, Arthur's face is totally blank, so Eames knows they're in trouble.

 

"And when did you reach this decision?" Arthur asks, voice monotone.

 

Jack, who is clearly not prepared for technical questioning, glances at Eames nervously, like Arthur might be trying to trick him. "Um…a while a go. I dunno. Maybe last week?"

 

"So you decided to throw your future away last week?"

 

"What? No…I mean, I'm not—I'm not throwing anything away," Jack sputters, cheeks flushing.

 

"Oh, so you're still getting a degree? A contract in the NFL?"

 

"Arthur…" Eames interrupts, taking pity on the boy. He's really not equipped to argue with an omega like Arthur.

 

Jack is drowning, but he's still valiantly trying to tread water, oblivious to the giant sea creature approaching from below. "I can get a job with Uncle Dom," he says, which of course is the worst possible thing to say to Arthur.

 

"We'll see about that," he replies icily. "After I talk with him."

 

"Dad!" Jack shouts, finally hitting his limit. "Why can't you just be happy for me? I don't want to play football! I'm really good at forging. Uncle Dom says so. I love it! I can't stop thinking about it!"

 

"Because it's addictive!" Arthur shouts right back, and Eames flashes back to their worst fights—when Jack just hit puberty and walked around as a raging ball of hormones, ready to throw down with Arthur at the slightest provocation, and his stubborn mate was always ready to give as much as he got. "It's a drug, Jack! This isn't just some stupid little game. I don't care how legit Dom says he's gone these days. It's never _safe_ to pump yourself full of drugs and open your mind to strangers!"

 

Eames is getting ready to physically shield one of them—he's not sure which one (maybe Jack)—when the doorbell rings.

 

The interruption is so unexpected that it temporarily stuns Arthur and Jack into silence, and the three of them dumbly stare at each other, as if they expect Max to waddle all the way from upstairs to answer it. 

 

"This isn't over," Arthur growls, pointing at Jack before stalking from the room to answer it, Eames following close behind.

 

When he throws open the front door, Frank is standing on the porch, a few days worth of stubble lining his jaw. His brow is furrowed, like he half-expected to be at the wrong address, but when he sees Arthur, a smirk breaks across his face. "Well, holy shit. Hey, kid."

 

The blood drains from Arthur's face, and he must sway a little because suddenly Eames is behind him, resting a reassuring hand against Arthur's back. "What the hell are you doing here?" Eames asks, tone less than civil.

 

Arthur braces a hand against the doorframe and focuses on breathing. He tells himself that Frank is not Browning—that seeing Frank now does not mean he's going back to the cell. Frank is a good guy. Frank is his friend.

 

The other alpha eyes Arthur with something akin to concern. "Uh, yeah. Sorry about not calling, or whatever. Mr. Saito's orders. I'm here to…" he squints into the air, reciting from memory, "Assist Max with anything he needs: grocery shopping, getting the nursery ready, all that stuff."

 

"You're supposed to be working with Saito," Arthur says, once the world has stopped spinning.

 

Frank sighs, rolling back his shoulders. His suit is more rumpled than usual from the long flight, and he smells a little like booze (probably from all the tiny bottles of alcohol he consumed crossing the ocean). "I gotta be honest. I hated Japan, man. Everyone is too polite, and I was the tallest guy there, and it was creeping me out." He shrugs, eyes narrowing as he examines Arthur's pale face. "And anyway, you look like you need help."

 

"We don't need your help," Eames says quickly, moving to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Arthur, and also to block the doorway.

 

Frank nods once. "Why don't you let him answer?" he asks, glancing at Arthur.

 

"Stop," Arthur sighs, eyes clenching shut for a moment. He doesn't want to have to process all of this right now: Max's pregnancy, Jack dropping out, Frank's arrival. It's all too much. This is supposed to be a joyous time of his life—the birth of his first grandchildren—and yet all he feels is stressed and terrified. "Frank, come in," he says, stepping aside to allow the man inside.

 

Eames openly gapes at Arthur, who holds up his hand before his mate can lecture him. "When were you going to tell me about Jack?" he asks, which of course is the verbal equivalent of sucker punching him in the solar plexus. It's true that Eames should have told his mate what Jack said last night, but he'd been too much of a coward. 

 

Frank grins like the Cheshire Cat as he steps past the threshold. "Oh boy. Trouble in paradise?" he chuckles, setting down his bag.

 

Eames glares at the other alpha in warning, but doesn't get a chance to reply because Jack walks into the room at that moment. He stops in his tracks when he spots Frank standing between his fathers. "Isn't that…?" he begins to ask warily, perhaps recognizing Frank from his role in Arthur's rescue.

 

"Frank," the alpha answers for himself, throwing up a mock salute. "Your new nanny, chauffeur, maintenance man. Whatever you need, I'm here to serve," he blusters.

 

"Nanny?" Jack repeats.

 

"He's not watching the babies," Arthur replies, apparently drawing the line at Frank being in a room alone with the soon-to-be sprogs. "You can do the shopping. I'll make you lists."

 

Frank shrugs, as if to say, _whatever you want._

 

Truthfully, another set of hands to help wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. Eames doesn't know how much longer he can keep up cooking elaborate meals for four—now five, actually _six_ people, with Frank. Plus, Arthur will need to be at Max's side more the further along he progresses in his pregnancy, so it might be good to have Frank to send on errands. Begrudgingly, Eames accepts that Frank might be able to help after all.

 

"Hello?" Max calls out from the top of the stairs, and when Eames moves to the base of the stairway, he sees Ravi gently escorting the omega down the steps.

 

When he emerges at the bottom, Frank smiles brightly and offers Max a little wave. The omega furrows his brow in response, confused because he's never met Frank before in his life, which apparently the alpha remembers eventually because he introduces himself:

 

"Hey there, sweetheart. I'm your Uncle Frank."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right, so, obviously universities don't allow students to "put their studies on hold" and continue to play football for them, but in this universe they doooooo! :D I had to make it work with the age difference, so please excuse the fudging of that small detail. Considering this is a verse in which men can have babies, I wouldn't say this is the hardest to believe aspect of the story ^.^


	31. Eddie and Pat's surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie and Pat's surprise

Eddie is stressed. Actually, he’s been stressed for months now.

He’s up for a big promotion at the firm, but the guy challenging him for the partnership is the soon-to-be-son-in-law of the eldest partner, Mr. Cahill. Pat doesn’t know his first name. Sort of like Madonna or God, he’s only ever known Eddie’s boss by one name:  _Cahill_. He’s an intimidating old alpha that Pat hates having to speak with at the firm’s Christmas parties because he’s mean, half-deaf, and makes rude jokes about omegas when he knows Eddie isn’t listening.

But Eddie is excited about the job promotion possibility. Therefore, Pat is excited about it too. Or to clarify: he’s terrified and also excited. It’s clear the alpha’s heart will be broken if he’s passed up for a promotion yet again by the nepotistic Cahill, who has been overlooking Eddie’s hard work for years in order to promote his own offspring, or their spouses. 

Every time the alpha comes home from work, Pat rushes into the hallway, eyes wide and hopeful, but over the past few months, Eddie has simply greeted him with a tightlipped smile and a little shake of his head.  _No news today_. 

"Oh well," Pat sighs, taking Eddie’s hat and kissing him softly. "No news is good news."

And that’s how they live for a long time. 

In order to vent some of his stress, Pat starts a garden in the backyard, and quickly learns he has something of a green thumb. He grows tomatoes, herbs, and even cucumbers. When Eddie learns the ingredients for their dinner salad came from the backyard, he gives an impressed little frown and nods slowly. “Well done, poppet,” he hums, grinning before spearing a tomato slice and popping it into his mouth.

It’s all the encouragement Pat needs to aggressively expand the garden operation. He grows squash, and carrots, and eggplants. Before long, some of the neighbors walk over to Pat as he kneels in between the rows of vegetables, shovelling dirt, and ask for tips. But he never really knows what to say beyond: _lots of time and love_. 

Eddie bursts out laughing one afternoon when Pat comes in through the kitchen, carrying his straw basket full of vegetables, and wearing a hat to prevent his pale skin from burning under the sun’s rays.

"Don’t make fun of me," Pat says, but he’s smiling because it’s nice to see Eddie when he’s not stressed and walking on eggshells.

"Aw, pet. I’m not. You just look so cute," he soothes, leaning over when he’s close to Pat to kiss his nose, which is slightly sunburnt. "What do you have there?" he asks, peering at the arrangement of beautiful vegetables.

"Our dinner," he replies smugly, shooting a heated little look over his shoulder before sauntering into the kitchen to deposit the vegetables in the sink for washing.

Of course, Eddie follows him, and presses up against Pat’s back as he smiles down at the colander, as though he could possibly find that as interesting as the alpha currently kissing the back of his neck.

That’s the one good outcome of Peter moving out, and Eddie being endlessly stressed at work: the alpha needs an outlet—an escape—and that has become lavishing Pat with attention. They’ve arguably had more sex the few months Peter has been gone than in all their years combined living together, and in places Pat never would have considered before (after all, they  _eat_ on the kitchen table, but Eddie had insisted, and he obliged).

"Leave it," Eddie whispers against his ear when Pat reaches to turn on the water to wash off the vegetables.

When he looks over his shoulder, Eddie crushes their mouths together. A startled moan escapes his lips, but when he turns in the alpha’s arms, Pat throws his arms around Eddie’s neck and jumps up, knowing his mate will catch him. The omega wraps his legs around Eddie’s waist as he slowly walks them to the nearest padded surface, which happens to be the living room couch, where they make love as passionately and as loudly as they like.

Because this is how they live now.

One afternoon, Pat is busily gardening in the back, and the sun is shining brightly above his head. Having spent most of his adult life in California, Pat is accustomed to heat, but for some reason, today his body isn’t being very efficient at cooling off. Pat sits back on his heels, grabs his hat off his head, and fans himself for a couple moments, but that doesn’t really do anything, so he brushes off his gloves, and walks back towards the house.

He barely makes it inside the kitchen before he collapses on one of the chairs and slumps against the wall. Pat has never experienced heat stroke before, but he wonders if that’s what’s happening now. His hair is soaked with sweat and matted to his forehead, and his hand trembles when he fishes the cellphone out of his pocket and calls Eddie’s office.

On the second ring, his mate’s voice greets: “Hey, poppet.”

"Eddie…" Pat trails off, resting the back of his head against the wall and closing his eyes when the room swims a bit. 

"Pat?" Eddie asks, concerned. "Are you all right? What’s wrong?"

He breathes slowly and deeply, hoping to compose himself at least enough to tell Eddie what’s going on: “I don’t feel good.”

That’s all he can manage, but fortunately the alpha doesn’t seem interested in interrogating him further. “I’ll be home as soon as I can, pet. I’m leaving right now. Go lay down, yeah?”

"Mhm…" Pat hums affirmatively and flips the phone shut.

It takes every fiber of optimism and moxie to make his way to the couch, and when he’s close enough, Pat collapsed on his side across the cushions. If quizzed at a future date, Pat would insist he only closes his eyes for a few moments, but it must be longer than that because suddenly Eddie is touching his forehead with something cold and wet as he murmurs: “Oh, pet. You’re burning up. We’ve got to get you to the doctor.”

But he doesn’t want to see a doctor, or get into a car, or move at all, and he must communicate that to Eddie somehow, because the next time he wakes, Pat is curled up on their bed. Lifting his head carefully, he squints at the window, but the blinds are shut, and it’s impossible to tell if the sun is still out. Just when he’s decided to try and sit up to investigate the time, Eddie comes walking into the room, dressed only in his boxers.

"Ah, no you don’t," he says softly, carefully pushing Pat back to the mattress. "You have to rest."

"M’okay. It’s just a bug," Pat replies, and he’s not lying entirely. He actually does feel a little bit better.

If Eddie replies, he doesn’t hear it. The next thing he’s aware of is his mate snuggling up behind him and wrapping a protective arm around his waist. Pat sighs contentedly and closes his eyes.

The next morning, Eddie makes a bit deal about him going to the doctor, even though he feels much better, and doesn’t have a fever anymore. They finally compromise on Eddie going to work, while Pat ventures to the doctor. At the very least, the alpha won’t have to miss a day of work over what Pat is sure just a minor 24-hour flu.

When he’s seated in the office, Dr. Michael asks him lots of questions about his symptoms. “I’m sure it’s from the heat,” Pat says, smiling self-deprecatingly. “I wasn’t drinking as much water as I should have been.”

Dr. Michael nods as he scribbles away in Pat’s file. “You’re probably right, but let me just run some other tests to be sure.”

Pat sighs, but nods in resignation. He wants to hurry home because the tomatoes just ripened yesterday, and if he doesn’t get them off the stems soon, they’ll spoil in the sun, or the bugs will get to them. 

The doctor checks his blood pressure, and uses a stethoscope to monitor the beating of his heart. He even goes as far as taking a little blood and asking for a urine sample. Pat takes the little plastic couple to the bathroom, fills it, and leaves it on the edge of a little window in the bathroom. Then he returns to the main inspection room and waits for Dr. Michael to return with all the results.

The whole thing feels like an exercise in superfluousness, especially now that Pat is almost completely recovered. The only side effect from the heat is a lingering sense of nausea, but Pat is sure that too will dissipate if he just takes it easy today. Sitting on the edge of the examination table, he feels like a silly, over-emotional omega for even being at the doctor’s in the first place.

While waiting, Pat flips out his phone and texts Eddie:  _I feel dumb. I just got too hot._

A minute passes before Eddie texts back:  _You’re probably right, but best to be sure_ , followed by a little emoji of a pink flower, Eddie’s shorthand for “poppet.”

Pat smiles slightly as he eyes the screen, but flips his phone shut when the doctor opens the door. “Okay, Pat,” he says brightly, flashing a smile before flipping open the file to consult the results of all the lab work.

Slipping the phone back into his pocket, Pat switches to nervously chewing on his thumb nail as he eyes Dr. Michael’s back. He’s almost entirely sure nothing is wrong with him, but there is always the remote possibility that the doctor will have bad news, and for the first time, he wishes Eddie was standing beside him.

"Well, we got your results back," the doctor proceeds at a maddeningly slow gait, and Pat nearly rolls his eyes and says something really snarky like,  _get on with it_ , but then he remembers to hold his tongue, be polite, and patiently wait for him to process the information. The doctor makes a quiet “huh” noise, and smiles when he looks over to Pat. “I think I found the problem. You’re pregnant.”

Pat stares at him for a long time, brow slightly furrowed in confusion. “That’s…impossible,” he mumbles, pauses to think about it, and adds (a little louder). “I’m too old. I had so much trouble conceiving the first time,” he adds confidently, and satisfied he’s made a compelling argument, awaits the doctor’s rebuttal.

Dr. Michael simply shrugs. “Well, dear, nature has a funny way of surprising us sometimes, doesn’t it?” he asks kindly, eyes shining as he watches Pat, like he’s just delivered some wonderful news.

"I  _can’t_  be,” Pat says again, more desperate this time.

The doctor seems to sense this isn’t a joyous occasion, and his smile fades from his face. “I’m afraid you are, Pat,” he says, and hands the omega his file, perhaps to convince him. 

He stares blankly at the pages of data resting on his lap. The numbers are meaningless. None of this is possible. His heartbeat thunders in his ears, the word  _baby_ echoing over and over in his head.

Dr. Michael stares at him, concerned. “Is…there someone I can call for you?”

"No," Pat says quickly, and then thinks:  _Oh my God. Eddie_. “I have to go,” he mumbles, sliding off the table, grabbing his things, and fleeing from the office.

Upon reflection, he should have called Eddie, or someone else, to drive him home because suddenly Pat finds himself parked in their driveway with no memory of how he got there. When he locks the car behind him, he checks the perimeter for any nicks or scratches, but there aren’t any. Though he has no recollection of the trip, Pat apparently managed to safely navigate his way back home. 

Pat quickly glances up and down the street to make sure he didn’t run over a dog, or a child, and after finding the coast is clear, hurries inside the house.

He spends the rest of the afternoon nervously pacing up and down the living room carpet, fantasizing about various disastrous outcomes once he tells Eddie the news. Most of these imagined scenarios end with Eddie being furious at Pat’s stupidity—to which he has no defense.  _Why weren’t you taking your suppressants?_ Eddie will ask, and Pat will stare back at him dumbly.  _I didn’t think I needed to take them anymore._

_I haven’t taken them for years and we’ve been fine._

_I thought I was too old._

_I thought I was broken._

Any way he slices it, Pat is stupid and to blame, and Eddie is going to be angry with him.

He pulls out of his self-imposed stupor in the evening, preoccupying himself instead with the daily ritual of preparing dinner. The mercifully meditative tasks of chopping vegetables provides some reprieve from his anxiety, but soon the casserole is in the oven, and Pat has nothing to do but sit at the kitchen table and wait. And think.

Chewing his thumb nail, Pat glances from the oven, to the clock, and back to the oven again. He sits there quietly until a car door slams shut out front, and he jumps to his feet.

Not telling Eddie isn’t an option because Pat tells him everything, and lying is out of the question. Pat falls to pieces whenever he even tries to tell white lies (stuff like trying to trick Eddie before a surprise party, or something. He’s really awful at keeping secrets). Eddie is going to take one look at him and know something is up.

When the front door opens, Pat hurries over to his mate and takes his briefcase and hat from him. “Hey, poppet,” Eddie says brightly. “How are you feeling?”

"Huh? Oh, much better," Pat says, smiling in what he hopes is a convincing fashion. 

"Smashing. Because I have some brilliant news," he crows, walking directly to the wet bar. "What do you want, love? We’re celebrating."

Pat watches silently as his mate slips out of his overcoat and lays it across the back of a chair in the living room. Realizing he’s still lingering by the door, he sets down the briefcase, hangs up the hat, and slowly walks over to the alpha. “Um…Oh, nothing, thanks,” he says, smiling faintly. 

Eddie eyes him curiously as he pours a bit of brandy in a snifter. “You sure you’re feeling well, pet?”

"Uh-huh. I’m great," Pat lies. "What’re we celebrating?"

A bright smile breaks across Eddie’s face as he raises his glass a bit. “You’re looking at the new partner.”

For a glorious moment, Pat genuinely forgets to be terrified. His eyes grow huge and he smiles brightly. “You’re kidding! Oh my gosh. Eddie, that’s so wonderful,” he cries, throwing his arms around the alpha’s neck, and very nearly upsetting his glass of alcohol. 

Eddie doesn’t seem to mind, though, because he laughs and kisses Pat on his mouth and brow. “I’m over the moon, poppet. You should have seen me when Cahill told me. My bloody jaw hit the floor,” he says, pausing to sip his brandy. “Now, it will entail a bit more travel to the office in New York, you know, but I figure it’ll be a great excuse for you and I to travel, yeah? I know you’ve always wanted to visit there.”

Pat takes half a step backward and feels the blood drain from his face as Eddie speaks.  _Travel_. He won’t be able to travel soon. Hell, he’ll barely be able to get off the couch. Pat can’t travel, and if he can’t travel, Eddie will have to leave for months at a time, or worse, not take the job because of Pat and his stupidity. He’s never going to forgive the omega for costing him an opportunity he’s been awaiting for years.

Eventually, Pat realizes Eddie has asked him something, and is now staring at him, waiting for a response. “Um…” Pat says softly, heart hammering in his chest, and cheeks warming because he has no idea what his mate asked him, and Eddie knows something is wrong, and he has no idea how he’s going to get out of this situation.

Which is why he bursts into tears in the middle of the living room.

"Pat…" Ed cries, setting down his glass and rushing forward. He stands helplessly in front of the hysterical omega a few moments, afraid to touch him like he’s a time bomb. But finally, he grips Pat’s forearms and squeezes them. "What the hell is wrong?"

Pat tries to talk, but he’s breathing too hard—borderline hyperventilating, and Eddie immediately intervenes:

"Okay. It’s okay. Come on. Let’s sit down, yeah? Right over here, love," he says gently, guiding Pat by the hand to the couch, where they sit down together. The alpha comfortingly cups Pat’s hands between his own. "Now, what’s this all about?"

Pat feels ridiculous, crying like a child, unable to articulate himself. He slides out a hand from Eddie’s grasp to wipe at his face, but of course because he’s perfect and a gentleman, Eddie beats him to it. He fishes a silk handkerchief from his pocket and gently dabs at Pat’s reddened, damp face. The tender gesture makes Pat want to explode in hysterics all over again.

"Eddie, I’m so sorry. I messed up," he whimpers.

"There, there, pet. Nothing can be that bad," he says soothingly, gently cradling Pat’s chin with his fingers so the omega is forced to gaze up at him. "Tell me."

Pat sighs miserably, shoulders hunching over in defeat. There’s no escape. He’s going to have to come clean. “I went to the doctor, and…I’m pregnant,” he says, forcing the words out quickly before he can chicken out.

The alpha looks exactly as confused as Pat felt in the doctor’s office, which would be kind of funny if he wasn’t scared out of his mind. Eddie blinks slowly, his grip on Pat’s hand tightening minutely. “Erm…you’re sure? I mean, the doctor is sure?”

Pat swallows thickly and nods: “As sure as they can be…about those things.”

Eddie quietly processes the information for a couple seconds before he asks the question Pat has been dreading: “How could this happen? I thought you…took precautions?”

His fingers tremble a bit when he reaches to hold Ed’s hand again. The alpha could potentially be furious at him in a couple minutes, so it’s best to enjoy their tentative peace while he still can. “I thought I was too old, so I just…stopped taking the suppressants a while ago. Eddie, it’s been  _years_  and… nothing—not even a scare. I had no idea I could even get pregnant again. Not after everything we went through trying to have Peter.”

Eddie makes a soothing noise and strokes his hand, and then his cheek, in a calming fashion. “It’s all right, poppet. I’m not cross,” he says, and actually laughs a little when he leans over to kiss Pat on the temple. “God, you’re  _shaking_. Love, it’s all right,” he says, wrapping an arm around the omega and squeezing him.

"But the promotion," Pat sighs miserably, voice wavering. "Eddie, I can’t be flying across the country when I’m pregnant."

The alpha nods slowly, expression thoughtful, but not in an angry way. Eventually, he shrugs. “Then I’ll turn it down.”

"No!" Pat cries quickly, his throat tightening, and fresh tears threatening to spill from his eyes. Pat doesn’t want his terrible decision to exist between them, festering like a wound. He will forever be the reason Eddie didn’t take the promotion—his career-long goal. Every time the alpha looks at Pat, he’ll feel regret, and maybe an undercurrent of anger. "You can still take the promotion. You’ll just travel without me."

"Absolutely not," Eddie says immediately, shaking his head. "I’m not leaving you here with child. I’d never forgive myself."

Pat inhales sharply, prepared to speak again, but he’s at a loss for words. Eddie has already shot down all of his ideas. So instead, something like a strangled whimper leaves him again, and he bows his head, shoulders shaking when a new round of sobs quakes through him.

He’s ruined everything.

Eddie is going to hate him forever.

There’s a slight pressure on the top of his head, and he eventually realizes it’s Eddie mouth. The alpha kisses him, in between making the same soothing noises. “Pat…I don’t care about the job. Love, look at me,” he says, gripping the omega’s shoulders until Pat finally stops crying and gazes meekly at him.

"Yes, you do," he rasps. "It’s all you’ve been talking about."

Eddie sighs, like Pat has caught him in the middle of a lie, which he has: “Well, true enough. But listen to me, love. The happiest moment of my life wasn’t when Cahill hired me, or anything to do with the firm,” he says, hands sliding up Pat’s arms until he’s cradling the omega’s face. “It was when I met you, poppet.”

The alpha probably means the words to be soothing, but Pat just starts crying again.

"I realize it probably wasn’t the best moment for you. Being stuck with me," he says quickly, attempting a bit of levity.

Pat laughs, despite his tears, and shoves the alpha lightly. “Shut up,” he mumbles, smiling faintly and wiping at his face.

"Pat, I just want you. That’s all I’m trying to say. Promotion, no promotion, California, New York…I don’t care. I just want you, love."

Gazing at Eddie, he searches for some kind of tell—a flicker in the alpha’s eyes that will reveal he’s lying, or censoring the truth for Pat’s benefit. But there’s nothing. Just Eddie, and his handsome face, and his genuine, albeit restrained, smile. “You really want to raise another kid?” he asks softly.

"With you? Of course," Eddie says immediately. "Why on earth wouldn’t I?"

Pat doesn’t have an answer for that, or rather, he  _did_ have a million imagined responses from Eddie, but apparently his traitorous mind had only supplied him with lies. Eddie is sitting beside him, genuinely saying that he’s ready to raise another child—that he’s actually excited at the prospect, and he doesn’t blame Pat.

The alpha laughs in surprise when Pat launches into his arms, and he’s saying something, but Pat doesn’t know what it is because he’s kissing Eddie’s mouth, and whispering:  _I love you. I love you_.

Finally, he understands what Eddie is saying, but only after he cups Pat’s face, and slows down their embraces so he can whisper to the omega between kisses:

"I love you. I’ll love you forever, Pat.


	32. Eddie and Pat's surprise (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie and Pat's surprise (part 2)

Mama descends on the house like a hurricane.

Pat is only a month pregnant, but he made the mistake of revealing his biological status to his mother via phone, and she immediately went into frenzy mode—dictating flight and arrival times, inviting herself to  _live_ with them (over Pat’s mild objections), dismissing his concerns with a condescending: “Now, my sweet, sweet treasure. Your mama knows best.”

She arrives three days later via chauffeured car, with so many bags that Eddie has to make three trips out to the curb to move them all inside to the guest bedroom. Pat helplessly watches his mate toil, while his mother coos and strokes his hair and stomach, calling the invisible child “our little miracle,” over and over.

"Mama, don’t fuss," he says softly, but she simply tisks and dismisses his request.

"Why not? It  _is_ a miracle, after all. You remember Miss Jolene? That psychic I see every month? Well, Miss Jolene  _told me_  you two were going to have more babies, and here we are!”

Even though she’s in California, Pat half-expects her to bust out her trusty fan and whip it in front of her face, just like she used to back in Georgia.

"Not  _babies_. Just the one baby,” Eddie corrects, breathless as he sets down the last enormous bag and closes the door.

Mama glares at the alpha, which Pat takes as his signal to intervene: “Arthur and Eames’ boy is pregnant, too. I just spoke on the phone with him,” he says, smiling brightly.

Eddie’s face lights up at that news: “Max?” And when Pat nods in response, he grins: “Smashing news.”

Perhaps to counterbalance their joy, Mama’s eyes narrow a bit. “Which one is Arthur again? Is he that hostile little brunette married to that handsome English gent across the way?”

Arthur and Mama did not have the best meeting ever. She only met him once, during one of her visits years ago, and had immediately been horrified to witness an omega conduct himself so recalcitrantly. Conversely, Eames had charmed Pat’s mother immediately, kissing her hand, referring to Mama incorrectly (and deliberately) as  _Pat’s sister_. The whole shebang.

Mama ate it up with a spoon.

"Mama, you know Arthur," Pat corrects gently. "He’s a good friend of mine."

She sighs loudly. “Well, let’s hope the grandbaby takes after the alpha father, hm?”

“ _Babies_ ,” Pat interjects. “Twins.”

Eddie whistles. “They must be over the moon.”

"All right, enough about that nasty omega with the good lookin’ husband. Show me where I’ll be sleeping, my sweet treasure," Mama says, looping her arm with Pat’s, and leading him down the hallway.

***

Arthur and Eames send a gift a few weeks later. It’s a big box wrapped in colourful paper, and when Pat tears it open, he smiles. “It’s one of those electric swings!” he cries, pleased, because he’s always wanted one. Arthur used to raved about how the swing lulled Jack and Rose to sleep when they were babies, even during their worst fits. Pat never had one when Peter was little, and would have to pace the living room for hours, rubbing the fussing baby’s back.

Mama glares suspiciously at the contraption, which in addition to being fully automatic, also has little toy owls that dangle from the top. “What on earth does it do?” she asks, stooping down a bit to eye the image on the box a little closer.

"It swings the baby," Pat says, smiling, oblivious and happy.

His mother blinks slowly, unimpressed with the explanation. “That’s what  _you’re_ for,” she says, and when Pat stares back at her dumbly, she clarifies: “ _You_ swing the baby.”

***

The electric swing stays in the box, and ends up in the garage, though Pat doesn’t throw it away. The plan is to assemble it after Mama has left, so she doesn’t get upset.

Having Mama around isn’t all bad, though. She is a big help, even if she’s occasionally a little too overprotective, and snaps at poor Eddie just because it’s been a while since there was a baby in the house, and he doesn’t remember a lot of what that requires.

"This has to go," Mama announces one day, pointing at Eddie’s wet bar.

Pat immediately rushes out of the kitchen, towel flung over his shoulder from doing the dishes, ready to intervene between his mate and Mama once again. Eddie never loses his patience, mind you, but sometimes Mama rails against his mate so badly that it makes Pat feel sick.

"Pardon?" Eddie answers politely, in the very English fashion that sometimes makes Mama frown.

"Your spirits," Mama says loudly, like Eddie is hard of hearing. "Little hands will bring this whole thing down. It’ll crash on the baby," she adds, gripping the edge of the cart and almost tipping it over in demonstration.

Eddie, who had been quietly reading the newspaper, folds it and sets the paper aside so he can direct his full attention at his mother-in-law. “We had the wet bar when Peter was small,” he rationalises.

Pat smiles a little, stupidly believing the matter to be settled (after all, why wouldn’t it be? They had the wet bar when Peter was little!), and looks at Mama, who of course isn’t placated by the alpha’s reasoning.

"Well, it was stupid then, and it’s stupid now," she snaps.

The wet bar is gone the following day—moved to the garage to live beside the boxed swing.

***

"Your mother hates me," Eddie says morosely one evening when they’re curled up together in bed.

Pat smooths the hair from the alpha’s brow and kisses his forehead. “It’s nothing personal, Eddie. Mama talks like that to everyone.”

And it’s true. Mama loves her family, Eddie included, but she’s a woman with very particular tastes, and it’s up to the universe to accommodate her, or suffer the consequences.

In the first three months living with them, Mama completely baby proofs the house, including rearranging the furniture to be more “accommodating for the little miracle” (she’s surprisingly spry for an omega her age). She bosses around Eddie, who is gracious and charming about it, but when Mama makes the alpha move his easy chair, which is sacrilege considering how alphas consider their sitting area to be throne-like, Pat finally gets annoyed.

"You know, I think you don’t like Arthur because he reminds you of yourself," he gripes, frowning at his mother. " _Bossy_.”

Eddie pauses in mid-drag of his chair and looks at Pat with wide eyes, a response Mama completely misses because she’s too busy levelling an icy glare at her only child. “Patrick Alden: You are not too old for me to box your ears.”

He can tell from the look in her eyes that she means it, too.

Pat stops talking back after that.

***

He remembers to be grateful for Mama around the time his stomach swells and it becomes difficult to get around. During this sedentary period, his mother is a sweet, benevolent force for good, who cooks for him, cleans the house, and dictates orders to Eddie. Yes, she still snaps at his mate, and is perhaps a little too bossy, but Pat is suddenly willing to forgive those transgressions because his back hurts and his ankles are puffy and ache.

The garden suffers his absence, and Pat gazes out the kitchen window one day, a forlorn expression darkening his face as he eyes the plants’ wilted figures.

"What is it, baby?" Mama asks from the kitchen table. She’s drinking a cup of coffee while she reads one of her magazines.

"My plants," he sighs.

"What plants? Flowers?"

"No, mama. I was growing food."

Mama gazes at him over the top of her reading glasses. “Why? Don’t you have a grocery store ‘round here?”

***

Peter visits when Pat is almost too big to climb off the couch, so instead his son walks over and sits beside him. “Wow,” Peter gasps, “You’re huge.”

Pat laughs and hugs his son in greeting—as best he can, anyway. He ends up slumped to the side, Peter’s arm flung over the hard swell of his belly. “Is this weird for you?” Pat asks, pulling back a little. “You probably weren’t expecting to have a sibling,” he adds, grinning weakly.

When he smiles, Peter is striking (just like Eddie), and he laughs. “Uh, well, not really, but I think it’s great.”

"It’s a blessing!" Mama cries from the kitchen, eavesdropping, as usual. "Maybe you’ll have an omega. Won’t that be wonderful?"

"Yes, mamaw," Peter agrees immediately, though risks a wink at his father because he knows Mama can’t see him.

Pat grins, resting his hand atop Peter’s and giving it a little squeeze. “How are you?”

"I’m good," his son says with a sigh, though his expression his relaxed and pleasant. "Tired from practice."

After graduating from college, Peter was recruited by the NFL, and plays Cornerback for the Arizona Cardinals. The game and practice schedule are gruelling, but he’s playing well, and at least he isn’t too far away to visit a few times every year. 

"When are you going to give me great grandchildren?" Mama asks, in an eerily familiar way that makes Pat flashback to when she used to ask him when he was going to give her grandchildren.

"Leave him alone," Pat laughs.

Mama emerges from the kitchen, cradling a bowl of chocolate malted milk balls that she offers to Peter. He accepts it, though Pat attacks the sweets first, piling a few into his greedy hand. 

"I don’t really have time to date," Peter answers evasively. 

Mama sits down in Eddie’s relocated armchair and plucks the reading glasses off her nose so they can hang from the chain around her neck. “Nonsense. What about that Rose girl? The one who belongs to that awful omega?”

Peter’s face goes crimson. “ _Mamaw_ ,” he groans.

"Is that the sound of my son being tortured by his grandmother?" Eddie asks, emerging from the bedroom down the hallway. 

A wide smile breaks across Peter’s face, and he leaps up to greet his father, throwing his arms around the elder alpha. “Thank God you’re here,” he says, voice dripping with gratitude. “She’s asking me about grandchildren.”

Eddie throws an arm around his son’s shoulders. “Courage, boy. Let’s get you a drink.”

***

They’re rarely alone, so the few times Mama has to go out to run an errand, or goes for her “morning constitution” (a walk around the neighbourhood), Eddie jumps Pat like he’s the only remaining omega on the face of the planet.

"Wait…wait," Pat gasps between kisses, feeling a little like a turtle rocking around on its back, as the alpha presses him down into the mattress. His stomach is a huge mountain between them, yet the alpha is skilful at navigating around the obstacle. Pat grips his mate’s shoulders and pushes him away. "Eddie, we can’t. Mama will be back soon."

"We’ll be quick," Eddie negotiates, collar already undone, and hands fumbling at the waistband of his slacks.

Pat feels a little dizzy, and his mate’s proximity isn’t aiding the moment’s lucidity. Every time he inhales, Eddie’s scent floods his nostrils. Forgetting about inappropriateness, Pat moans softly, and doesn’t resist when the alpha pins him down by his wrists, Eddie’s mouth crushes against his lips. 

All of a sudden, the front door slams shut and Mama’s voice carries through the house:

"Such rude little devils in this neighbourhood! They think it’s funny to throw a plastic disc near a senior citizen’s head! Didn’t think it was too funny when I took their toy, did they? It’s mine now," she cries.

Pat bursts out laughing against Eddie’s mouth. Defeated, the alpha drops his head against the omega’s chest, but when he looks up again, Eddie is smiling. “Bugger,” he sighs.

Nodding in agreement, Pat sighs, even though he’s still grinning. “Rain check?”

Eddie’s mouth is soft and warm when they kiss. “You’re lovely, and I’ll wait forever for you,” the alpha whispers before slipping away to go see about Mama and the stolen frisbee that will have to be returned to the neighbour children.

***

Mama and Eddie bicker frequently, but no time more than during the weekends, when the alpha has a couple days off from the slog of office life. Eddie watches soccer matches in the morning, but that’s the time when Mama wants to watch her stories, so they always fight over who gets control of the remote.

During this time, Pat usually hides in the bedroom until they’ve sorted out things.

He sits on the edge of the bed and listens to the familiar tones of his family: the deep, reasonable murmur of his mate, followed by a brassy, high-pitched voice that is unquestionably his mother.

Except, this particular Sunday morning, he isn’t able to ride out the argument entirely because his water breaks. Pat soaks the bedspread and his pajama bottoms, and the fabric clings to his rear and thighs as he waddles awkwardly from the bedroom and down the hallway. Mama and Eddie are still bickering (though in their indoor voices, so as to not upset Pat), and they don’t notice him until he’s standing in the room.

"My water broke," Pat announces, effectively ending the argument.

The nice thing about being pregnant, and in labor, is that no one expect Pat to mediate fights or make any decisions. Mama and Eddie put aside their differences in order to pile him into the car and speed off to the hospital, where there is an entirely separate staff responsible for its own carefully choreographed routine. Nurses place Pat in a wheelchair and whisk him off to a sterile, white room, in which no one is allowed to bicker about chair placement, soap operas, frisbees, or wet bars. Mama and Eddie don’t fight, and instead they stroke Pat’s head, and tell him he’s doing well as he suffers through the contractions.

There’s a machine by his bed that predicts the next painful wave, like there’s an entire planet in his belly, complete with threats of earthquakes. Eddie sits by him, holding his hand, and carefully watching the monitor for the telltale spike that means more agony is on the way. Meanwhile, Mama fetches him whatever he needs: another pillow to stack behind Pat so he can sit up in bed, ice cubes for him to suck on, the doctor for Mama to lecture about wandering off when her “sweet, sweet treasure” is in so much pain.

When another contraction crashes over him, Pat clutches his mate’s hand. He must be crushing the bones in Eddie’s fingers, but the alpha doesn’t complain. Instead, he makes soothing noises, and quietly tells Pat he’s doing well. 

This goes on for hours until Pat gratefully accepts the epidural injection, and the rest of the birth is a blissful experience. He remembers the operation in pieces: Eddie in a green surgical mask, holding his hand. A blue curtain partitioning his belly in half. Beautiful, gorgeous numbness. A baby’s cry.

Abigail Alden is a little underweight, but the doctor says she’s healthy—all ten fingers and toes, a gorgeous little girl with blonde hair and dark eyes.

She’s beautiful, and Mama hogs the baby, cooing and telling the oblivious child how glorious she is—until Eddie intervenes and quietly insists on holding his daughter.

"Pat, she’s perfect," the alpha says, smiling down at the tiny baby. "You did so well, poppet."

Pride swells in his chest in response to Eddie’s praise, even though he had very little control over what happened to him, including his impregnation and Abigail’s birth. Regardless, the alpha’s words sooth him, and when he gazes at the tiny bundle in Eddie’s arms, tears prickle his eyes. He never thought he’d see the alpha holding a newborn— _their_ newborn—again, and Pat didn’t know that was a thing he actually wanted, very badly, until this moment.

Mama shatters the moment, though Pat finds he doesn’t really mind, when she clucks: “Of course she’s perfect.  _My son_ birthed her, didn’t he?”

***

Shortly after Abigail’s birth, Mama returns home to Georgia, which means the house is theirs again, complete with the electronic swing and wet bar that reside in the living room (though this time Eddie anchors the bar to the wall).

Abby is a wonderful baby, who rarely fusses, but that may be because she loves the swing. She rocks in it during the afternoon, smiling up at the stuffed owls, or the faces of her fathers when one of them leans over to say hello to her.

And even though Arthur previously lectured Pat on the evils of assigning color based on gender, Pat buys pink  _everything_ , including frilly little socks, and tiny barrettes for the baby’s fine hair. The nursery and crib all have pink features, and he already has Barbie dolls waiting for his daughter, stacked inside their boxes on the dresser.

"What if she doesn’t like Barbie?" Eddie asks innocently one day.

Pat stares at his mate, like he just asked  _what if the fish doesn’t like water?_

He hates being apart from Abby, so Pat usually carries the baby from room-to-room in his arms, or sits dutifully by the swing or crib, singing lullabies. Her face always lights up when Pat sings, or talks, or even just makes nonsensical sounds. 

"She adores you," Eddie notes one day.

Pat reaches down, and in response, Abby wraps her fingers around his thumb.

"The feeling is mutual." 


	33. Max is extremely pregnant and Frank is trying to help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max is extremely pregnant and Frank is trying to help.

"I hear you play football," Frank says, hunched over a heaping plate of bacon at the kitchen table.

 

Others have requested more exotic breakfast orders from Eames: eggs benedict, tofu scramble, omelettes, but Frank had a simple request for a mass quantity of bacon. His exact phrasing had been: _Give me enough pig to stop my heart_ , and Eames begrudgingly fulfilled the request. He's not thrilled Frank, an extension of Saito, is living under his son's roof, but he also doesn't want to upset Max in his condition. Therefore, Eames has decided to say nothing, be a good team player, and fulfill his role as chef.

 

Jack stares back at him, brows high on his forehead, surprised at the boldness of this virtual stranger. "Uh…" he responds, glancing past Frank to his father, who appears immersed in his cooking duties, but Jack can tell is actually closely monitoring his response. 

 

Arthur is upstairs, helping Ravi get Max ready for the day. Today they're going to set up a temporary bedroom on the first floor so the omega won't have to travel up and down the steep wooden stairs, and risk taking a nasty spill.

 

It's as good of a time as any to be honest, but Jack feels a bit uncomfortable talking about his life with a man he barely knows. "Yeah, at college," he answers elusively. 

 

Frank bites into one of the crisp strips and chews thoroughly, thoughtfully eyeing the other alpha. A couple day's worth of stubble lines his jaw, and he hasn't bothered to smooth down his bed head just yet. He's wearing boxers and a plain white t-shirt that has a small stain just beneath the collar. Basically, he's the last person in the world in a position to judge Jack, and he doesn't even know Jack is considering dropping out of school and going into dreamshare, and yet the alpha is left with the distinct impression Frank can see through his cool facade to the trembling, chaotic mess at the core.

 

"That's very interesting," he says eventually, in a tone that makes Jack want to stand up and walk out the back door.

 

But immediately after Frank utters the cryptic statement, Arthur enters the kitchen, so Jack drops his gaze to the table, jaw audibly clicking shut. The omega stands beside the table for a moment, gazing at his son, and then Frank, before looking to to his mate.

 

"What shall it be, love?" Eames asks, even though his back is to Arthur as he cracks a couple more eggs into the pan.

 

"Are you making omelettes?"

 

"I'm making whatever you fancy, my sweet."

 

"May I have an omelette?"

 

"You may."

 

"Thank you," he says, slowly easing into a free chair beside Jack and across the way from Frank.

 

Jack has already picked his plate clean, and it sits in front of him with only a couple crumbs left behind, remnants from the delicious eggs benedict his father made for him earlier. He shifts on his chair, determined to look anywhere but at his father, whose dark eyes lock upon him. Whenever his fathers were furious with one of the kids, they were sure to be extra nice and polite to each other, as if bolstering their bond would help reenforce their union to withstand the onslaught of disobedience from the children.

 

"I want to extend a counteroffer to you," Arthur says suddenly.

 

Jack looks up sharply, and from the corner of his eye, he sees Frank with elbows on the table, holding another bacon strip like a cigar. The other alpha watches Arthur with something like silent amusement.

 

"Okay…?" Jack says warily.

 

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest, somehow looking like a frightening business executive even though he's wearing long-sleeved Tricot pajamas. Eames is bigger than the omega, but sometimes Arthur is infinitely more intimidating. "You finish college, get your degree, and I will talk to your uncle about finding you some dreamshare work," he says, jumping to add, " _Legal_ work, mind you," when Jack's face lights up.

 

"Seriously?" he asks, looking from Arthur to his father, who is now watching the interaction as he occasionally tends to the omelette.

 

Arthur sighs loudly. "It's not like I can stop you from going into dreamshare, but I want you to be safe. And I want you to get your degree."

 

Chewing noisily on his eightieth piece of bacon, Frank uses the non-masticated half to point at Jack. "What's your bag, kid?"

 

"What?" he asks, confused and still dazed by his father's offer.

 

Frank shrugs, still chewing enthusiastically. "Saito had a file on you guys. Eamesie is a forger, right? And your pretty little father is a point man—"

 

The comment is said in jest, but Eames' attention snaps over to Frank so aggressively that Arthur immediately utters a warning: _"Frank…_ "

 

"What? Oh Christ, I'm kidding," he smirks, waving the bacon in the air before popping the other bit in his mouth. "Anyway, what do you do?" he asks around the mouthful.

 

"I forge," Jack says, trying out the professional title. It's the first time he's said it out loud, and though Eames is trying to play the part of neutral arbitrator, his spine straightens a bit, and the set of his shoulders is proud—perhaps in response to the idea of his son following in his footsteps.

 

Frank frowns thoughtfully and nods, taking in that information. "Very interesting," he comments again.

 

Arthur sighs. "Eat your bacon," he says dismissively and moves to the edge of his seat. "Do we have a deal?" he asks Jack.

 

He silently considers the proposal. Lately, Jack has been crawling out of his skin at school. His normal routine of classes, practices, games, and parties has suddenly become unbearable the last couple months, probably because he's realized dreamshare is his calling, and everything else seems superfluous. But the degree means everything to Arthur and Eames, and Jack is willing to suffer a little bit longer if it means pleasing them.

 

"Yeah," he says finally, flashing a timid smile at his father.

 

The tension washes out of the room when Arthur stands and leans down to kiss the top of Jack's head. "You're a stubborn alpha. Just like your dad," Arthur sighs, but he says it in a good-natured way, smiling as he accepts his plated omelette from Eames.

 

"Oy, I'll have you know I finished university," he says defensively.

 

Arthur rolls his eyes when he sits back down at the table. "Forged degrees don't count."

 

Eames laughs as he mans the stove again, cooking up a scramble for Max and Ravi, whose footfalls travel down the stairs. 

 

"Touché, darling."

 

***

 

The next unannounced guest is Rose, who arrives just after they've set up Max's downstairs bedroom. Frank bought a small, but comfortable, cot for Max, and set it up nearby the couch so Arthur will be able to sleep close to his son. The two omegas have reverted back to a relationship that very much resembles their close attachment when Max was a little boy, and used to follow Arthur around the house like his shadow. Max wants his father with him constantly, and Arthur is only too happy to oblige, worrying over every little thing Max eats, or feels.

 

Eames and Ravi are on their own for the time being, left to find their own sleeping arrangements. Ravi stays in the master bedroom upstairs, and Eames takes the guest room. Perhaps most hilariously of all, Frank is set up in a sleeping bag on the floor of the guest room, making him and Eames hostile roommates. But Arthur figures, if he made things work between Cobb and Eames all those years in dreamshare, he can make this arrangement with the alphas work for a few months.

 

It's when Arthur and Eames are fitting fresh sheets on the cot that a knock comes from the front door.

 

Frank just so happens to be descending the steps when the visitor knocks, so he's the one who answers. "Well, hello there," he says in a none-too-innocent fashion.

 

"Who are you?" Rose asks.

 

Arthur immediately hurries over and braces a hand against Frank's shoulder, coaxing the man to step aside. "Hey, honey," he says, leaning forward to kiss his daughter's cheek. "What're you doing here?"

 

Rose slowly walks into the house, squinting suspiciously at Frank. "Is he the guy from that night?"

 

"Frank," the alpha says, extending a hand that Rose stares at disinterestedly before moving further into the house to embrace her other father.

 

"Petal," Eames greets in surprise. "Does Max know you're visiting?"

 

"Why is he here?" she asks instead, nodding to Frank.

 

"I'm _helping_ ," Frank says, somehow making that seemingly innocuous statement sound sordid. 

 

But the declaration isn't exactly untrue. Frank has indeed been helping: running little errands, picking up items for the babies, unwrapping and sorting through the mountains of gifts Ravi's parents have sent for the babies, the little monotonous tasks that would usually take Arthur and Eames away from Max for hours every day. Now, they're afforded the opportunity to monitor their son every hour of the day, and while Max has been snippy as of late, feeling a bit like a caged lab rat, Frank's presence has reduced their anxiety a bit.

 

Not that Arthur would ever, _ever_ admit that, mind you.

 

"If you really want to help, help us get this bed ready," Arthur snaps, thrusting an armful of linens into Frank's arms to keep his hands occupied.

 

***

 

Max evidently had no idea his sister was visiting because he freaks out the second he waddles into the living room and lays eyes on Rose.

 

"Holy crap! You'll be here the whole time? Like, for the birth and everything? Oh gosh, that's so awesome. I'm so glad you're here. Ravi, isn't this great?" he rambles, smiling brightly, and his mate flashes a supportive little smile his way, even though Ravi is currently doing some slumbering math, and wondering where in the world they'll be able to fit Rose in such a full house.

 

It's nice to see Max, who has been rather sulky and sedentary lately, light up in the presence of his sister.

 

"Uh-huh. The whole time. I'll help and stuff," she says, hands reflexively moving to rest on the mighty swell of Max's stomach. The omega doesn't have a large build to begin with, so his stomach gives him a comically disproportioned appearance—his spine defying the very laws of physics by counterbalancing the weight of the babies.

 

"Crazy, right?" Jack says from the couch, where he's watching football. "Max, you look like…" the alpha squints thoughtfully, "Rose, what does he look like?"

 

Rose eyes her younger brother. "Well, he looks like a penguin when he walks."

 

Jack shakes his head. "No, I mean right now. I want to say a walrus, but—"

 

Max glowers at them both, and just like that, he's five-years-old again, and his older siblings are picking on him. "Hey!" he cries, the raising of his voice uncharacteristic enough to instantly silence them. "You're not allowed to stay if you're going to make fun of me."

 

"Aw, we're just kidding," Rose soothes, smiling as she cradles Max's stomach.

 

"Yeah," Jack chimes in, even though his gaze is now fixated on the television. "That's how you know we're family."

 

***

 

Ravi offers the master bed to Rose, so he ends up in a sleeping bag on the floor, which is bloody uncomfortable and lonely. Almost every night, he has trouble sleeping, so he sneaks downstairs when he's sure Arthur is asleep, to visit Max in the makeshift bedroom.

 

Carefully, Ravi sits on the edge of the bed, and quietly waits until Max shifts, or reaches for him, any kind of indication he's awake. It's a nice cot —cost more than a decent bed— so Max is as comfortable as possible given the circumstances, and still he can't sleep most nights. His stomach and chest are distended and heavy, and make sleep difficult if not impossible.

 

"Hey," Max says softly, almost immediately as Ravi sits beside him.

 

"Hello," Ravi replies, smiling even though Max probably can't see him. He can't only make out the faint outlines of things in the darkness, but he glances over to the couch just to make sure Arthur isn't disturbed by their talking.

 

"I miss you," Max whispers sadly, and Ravi's throat tightens in response. He knows the omega feels guilty about so many visitors, mostly his family, invading their home during the last few difficult months, but Ravi is willing to sacrifice a little personal space if it means Max's family is close by.

 

"Only a little way to go, priya," he replies, reaching to grip the omega's hands and bring them up so he can kiss the backs of Max's fingers.

 

Soon, the babies will be here, Max will graduate, and they can focus on work and family. 

 

Ravi misses Max too— misses sharing a bed, living as a unit of two, but he doesn't want to voice that distress. Max is dealing with so much already that he doesn't want to add guilt and sadness into the mix.

 

"Sorry…about my family," he says anyway, perhaps because he knows Ravi won't bring it up.

 

Ravi's grip tightens on Max's fingers. "They just want to help."

 

And the truth is they're going to need all hands on deck the moment the babies arrive.

 

***

 

Frank is noisily eating an apple. Like, he's _really_ going to town on the thing, which is why it's so weird the two kids don't hear him as he approaches the back door and swaggers out onto the porch. Not his loud chewing, not his footfalls through the kitchen, cue the kids into his arrival because they both nearly leap out of their skin when Frank emerges from the house.

 

He doesn't hear much of their conversation, but he hears enough to piece together something is up because Frank has always been intuitive and clever like that.

 

The second before the door slams shut behind him and spooks the kids, the boy, Arthur's son— _Jack_ , his brain supplies—is trying to encourage his sister, Rose, when he says: "I thought they'd flip out on me too, but I swear, Arthur is being cool about it—"

 

Then they shut up the moment Frank arrives.

 

Frank smiles wolfishly when they try to look casual. _Well, well, well_. It appears as though ol' Franky boy has arrived at quite the interesting moment in Mr. Arthur's life. First, the boy, Jack, says he wants into dreamshare, and it seems as though the daughter has similar inclinations.

 

Arthur is going to blow his damn top.

 

"Oh, please. Don't stop on my account. What you're talking about sounds _fascinating_ ," he says, biting into his apple again.

 

Jack looks at him with an annoyed expression he borrowed from Eames. "Remind me again why this is any of your business?"

 

Frank shrugs casually. "I saved your dad."

 

" _My dad_ saved Arthur," Jack sneers. "You didn't do shit."

 

"Language," Frank instructs helpfully, a wicked smirk hanging on his lips. Jack reminds him of a little lion cub squeaking with mock bravado in the safe shadow of its father, but Eames isn't with them right now on the porch.

 

Rose is a young lady, and as such, she's smarter than her brother. "Enough," she says, gripping Jack's arm. "Go see if Max needs help getting ready for dinner."

 

Jack eyes her warily, then looks at Frank when he says: "You sure?"

 

Like Frank is a degenerate who attacks betas, or something. He wants to remind the kid that _he_ was the one who tried to stop Browning from beating Arthur. Instead, he pitches the apple core disdainfully into the bushes for the ants to finish off.

 

When Jack is gone, Rose leans against the porch banister and eyes him thoughtfully. "You like pissing off everyone, don't you?"

 

Frank moves to sit on the steps and squints up at her. "Me? You're the one about to wreck Arthur's world, right?"

 

The playful light in Rose's eyes drains away, the smug smirk melting from her lips, as she slowly moves to sit beside him on the steps. It's not a friendly manoeuvre. She just wants to be close to him so she doesn't have to raise her voice.

 

"What do you think you know?" she asks, which is a really clever way to frame a question, and it reminds Frank of Arthur, so he grins a little.

 

"I know your dumb brother wants to get into dreamshare because your dad, Eames, is a master forger. I know you probably want in too, and it's going to freak out Arthur."

 

He watches Rose turn pale in the moonlight, and wishes he could feel joy at getting the upper hand, but Rose reminds him of Arthur, so he isn't able to gloat. 

 

"Um…yeah…that's pretty close, actually," she replies weakly, sighing and wrapping the fabric of her flowing skirt tightly around her legs.

 

Frank eyes her thoughtfully. Unfortunately, he is one of those adults who vividly remembers his experience as a brash, foolish young man ready to take on the world. He is not one of these bloodless husks walking around, capable of dimissing youthful energy and optimism. Frank envies kids because the world hasn't beaten them down yet, or made them feel like stupid failures.

 

They don't talk for a long time, but inside, Frank hears some noise in the kitchen, which means Arthur and Eames are setting the table for dinner.

 

"Why did you help my dad?" Rose asks suddenly.

 

Frank looks up at the sky. It's nice here because there aren't too many city lights, and he can see the stars. He's been living in cities so long that he forgot what nature sounds like. Nature sounds like a lot of nothing—like silence, like the inside of his own head.

 

"He was nice to me," Frank says, but that's a lie. Arthur isn't a _nice_ person. Frank might not know him as well as Eames, but he's at least gleaned that much. Arthur is capable of being loving and cordial, but that's not why Frank helped him. 

 

Frank helped Arthur because, if he hadn't, a piece of him would have died. He might be a rat bastard and a scoundrel, but Frank still operates under a code. He is the man who doesn't beat omegas. He is the man who hates when alphas mistreat omegas because his own father had been a chronic gambler and alcoholic, and beat his omega mother so badly that she later died in the hospital.

 

"You just know sometimes…when you're doing the right thing," he says.

 

Rose's eyes widen and she looks very young when she asks: "How will I know?"

 

 _Shit_.

 

Frank is no good at this life advice stuff. It's too much pressure, and he always says the wrong thing, and no one listens to him when he's right anyway, so what's the point? Still, Rose seems to really value his words, which is nice, and unexpected, and Frank finds that he doesn't want to disappoint her.

 

"Do you like this dreamshare stuff?"

 

"More than anything."

 

"So do it."

 

Rose stares hard at him, then furrows her brow. "But…my dad.."

 

"He'll be pissed, yeah," Frank says, nodding in concession. "But it's your life, right? Not his. And you're young. This is when you're supposed to do brave, dumb shit."

 

Thank Christ, the kid finally smiles, or laughs, actually. That makes Frank laugh too, like he just kicked the valve off a steam pipe, and they're venting into the night. He reclines back on the steps, and laughs and smiles (with Rose watching him, laughing and smiling), until the back door opens.

 

When Frank looks back, Eames is standing in the doorway, staring back at him like he's a slab of meat.

 

"No, absolutely not," the Brit says, charging forward, then stopping, and pointing at Rose. "Inside, young lady. Right now."

 

Rose stares at her father, baffled, but complies with a little bon voyage wave to Frank before she disappears inside.

 

"You," Eames hisses, pointing a thick finger his way. "Stay away from my daughter."

 

Which is totally fucking typical, you know. People assuming the worst of ol' Franky boy. Here he is, practically a saint, dolling out free advice to lost kids, and what good does it do? Now he's being labeled a pedophile, or something, by a hothead alpha.

 

"Hey, man, listen—" is all Frank says in response before Arthur uses his Spidey senses to realize the alphas are about to kill each other, and he appears in the doorway.

 

"Eames, I need your help," Arthur lies, but the fib works, and Eames follows him—only after levelling one last, threatening glare at Frank.

 

There's no pleasing some people.


	34. The twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The twins.

"Mate, I'm serious. Knock it off."

 

"Knock what off?"

 

Eames sets aside his copy of _The Old Man and the sea_ and glares at the insufferable American seated on the floor. 

 

"You know _what_. The commotion with the ball. Knock. It. Off."

 

He's been biting his tongue for the better part of a month—allowing Frank's indiscretions and annoying ticks to roll off his back for the sake of Arthur, and Max, and the sprogs—but he's reached his limit. Eames ignored the suggestive remarks about Arthur and Rose, and the other grating habits (chewing with his mouth open, smoking cigars on the porch, the prodding questions,) but this… _thing_ with the ball.

 

This is too much.

 

Frank is seated on the carpet, back propped against the opposite walls, and he offers one of his open-mouthed grins when he holds up the tennis ball. 

 

"This ball?"

 

"That ball, mate," Eames responds, arms crossing his chest.

 

For days one-through-four of the brave fisherman Santiago's journey at sea, Frank has been tossing that bloody ball at the wall, and catching it off its ricochet. Again and again. Toss. _Thump._ Catch. Toss. _Thump._ Catch _._ Toss. _Thump._ Catch.

 

"Why don't you read something?" Eames asks diplomatically. 

 

Nose wrinkling, Frank rolls the ball between his fingers. "Reading's not really my bag."

 

Eames stares at him. "What the hell does that mean?"

 

Who says something like that? What kind of man doesn't enjoy reading—not reading a certain genre, mind you, but the concept of reading _in general_? This is why he's gone from detesting Frank to wanting to throttle him as of late.

 

As per usual, Frank reacts with potent hostility. Perhaps feeling sensitive at Eames' reaction, and at the implication that only a stupid man would hate reading, he leaps up to his feet, and with his free hand, points right at Eames. "You got something to say? Say it, man! Stop dancing around the issue, you fat British prick!"

 

 _Right_.

 

Eames leaps up to his feet, and feels not a little smugness when Frank shrinks back slightly. 

 

"You want me to say it?"

 

Looking a little unsure, but ever the stubborn prat, Frank swallows thickly and nods slightly: "Say it."

 

Shoulders squared, Eames sucks in a deep breath, and the middle knuckle of his right hand pops when he squeezes it with his thumb. 

 

"You're a bloody stupid, useless wanker."

 

***

 

"I hate this."

 

"I know, but you're almost there."

 

"You say that every day," Max sighs, his view of the television partially obstructed—mostly because his stomach is massive now, but also because he's slouched on the couch, lacking the energy to commit to proper posture. 

 

"True," Arthur says, smiling as he rubs Max's stomach, which feels nice. "But I actually mean it now. I think it'll happen this week."

 

It's been wonderful having his parents to coach him through this experience—not just because they've been an invaluable source of information for telling Max what to eat, and what lotions to use on his skin, and how to baby proof the house—but also as coaches. Ravi is working himself ragged trying to make things easier for Max, and he appreciates it, but in terms of having actual baby-rearing experience, he's really no match for Arthur and Eames.

 

"I was miserable the week before I had Jack. Ask your dad," Arthur says, smiling first at Max's belly before his gaze rises to his son's face.

 

Max smiles thinly. It helps to hear these little stories from Arthur—to know he's not alone, that everyone goes through this, and that it's normal. 

 

The scent of burnt bread wafts from the kitchen seconds before Ravi appears, carrying a plate. His mate has taken up the task of preparing little snacks for Max between Eames' glorious meals. In comparison, they're nothing spectacular: sliced fruit, toast and peanut butter, a bowl of cereal, but Max appreciates the effort, nonetheless. 

 

"Here you go, priya," Ravi says, sitting beside him to hold the plate so Max doesn't have to rest it on his belly.

 

Max greedily snatches the first piece of toast off the plate and munches on it before he remembers to be polite and mumbles, "Thank you" around a mouthful. He's _starving_ even though he wolfed down Eames' huge breakfast mere hours earlier. He'd eaten so much, in fact, that Rose and Jack had volunteered to go to the grocery store to restock the pantries for dinner. 

 

Chuckling, Ravi reaches up to tuck a curl behind Max's ear and kisses his temple. "My pleasure. What are we watching?"

 

Arthur glares hostilely at the screen. " _The_ _Real Omegas of Ocean County_ ," he says seconds before two omegas on screen attack each other and overturn a table, upsetting a lavish spread. Max silently mourns the wasted food.

 

"Bloody hell," Ravi says, surprised. "What are they on about?"

 

Arthur sighs, clearly pained, but keeping his thoughts to himself because Max likes this show. "They're fighting over some alpha."

 

"Madison Parker," Max explains, around another mouthful of toast. "He's the richest alpha in Ocean County."

 

Listening thoughtfully, Ravi nods as a playful smile breaks across is face. "Would you do that for me, priya? Throw down in public?"

 

"Oh yeah," Max says immediately, cheeky and adorable even in his swollen state. "I'd stab a bitch."

 

Suddenly, the ceiling quakes, severely enough to rattle the light fixture above their heads. The commotion is followed by a loud boom—something heavy falling to the floor, and a shout.

 

"Shit," Arthur hisses, flying off the couch and racing towards the stairs, followed closely by Ravi.

 

They charge up the stairs, and Arthur throws open the door to the guest room to reveal Eames and Frank fighting. Kind of. More specifically, Eames has Frank in a headlock, and they both stop struggling the moment they spot Arthur in the doorway. One of the dressers is overturned, resting facedown on the floor. Eames looks at him guiltily, and Frank cranes his neck so he can see the omega as well.

 

"Control your mate!" he shouts.

 

"Eames!" Arthur cries. "Let him go!"

 

"He started it!" Eames insists.

 

From behind the commotion, Ravi watches in a daze, suffering from a moment of existential crisis in which he imagines that this will soon be his life: two alphas, two _child_ alphas, unknowing and uncaring of their own strength, fighting and suffering under the same roof. Eames and Frank are grown alphas, and they still can't help but cause havoc in the household. Just imagine two children.

 

Eventually, Arthur pries the two men apart, using a little bit of strength, but mostly the fierce scowl on his face.

 

Eames sheepishly walks over to the bed and sits down, while Frank kneels on the floor and carries on a bit, rubbing his neck, and grousing about how much it hurts.

 

"You'll be fine," Arthur answers callously. "I can't believe you two idiots are fighting, while poor Max is suffering downstairs."

 

That jab strikes Eames deeply, Ravi can tell, as he watches the elder alpha cringe. He feels so bad, actually, that he's compelled to jump in: "Max is okay. He's watching something terrible on TV."

 

The glare Arthur casts his way is brutal, but Ravi doesn't regret his actions because his father-in-law looks a little less like he wants to die from embarrassment. 

 

"Darling, I'm sorry. I just…I can't stand living with _him_ anymore," Eames sighs.

 

"You can have our room," Ravi offers. "I'll share with Frank."

 

"Absolutely not," Arthur dictates. "This is your home. Eames will have to put to rest whatever silly rivalry he and Frank have going on."

 

Ravi decides to be quiet after that, and not point out that technically Arthur and Eames bought the house, and fully stocked it, for them. And that if Eames wanted to pull a power move, he could easily claim he's earned the right to seize the master bedroom. The point is that Arthur wants to punish Eames, and Eames feels guilty enough about causing stress for his pregnant son that he's willing to self-flagellate by bunking with Frank.

 

"Apologize to Frank," Arthur commands.

 

Frank looks vaguely amazed when the alpha slowly stands up and walks over to him, a hand extended. Ravi isn't surprised, though. He stopped being surprised a long time ago when it comes to Arthur's bossiness, and Eames' willingness to obey commands from an omega. And he's also learned never to question Arthur, lest he incur his wrath.

 

"I'm sorry, mate," Eames says.

 

Frank eyes his hand mistrustfully, but eventually accepts it, shaking the fingers weakly. "Um…yeah. Ditto. Sorry about that, guys."

 

"Is everything okay?" Max calls from downstairs.

 

"Yeah!" Ravi answers, walking back downstairs, and flashing a smile once he's back in the living room. "Everything's fine, priya."

 

***

 

Bathing has become something of an Olympic sport for Max lately. He can't stand under the shower because his ankles hurt too much, so Ravi has to help him take baths. It's a little humiliating at first, but eventually Ravi turns bath time into a nice moment of relaxation—complete with scented candles and bubbles. Basically, he's spoiling Max rotten, but the omega isn't about to complain.

 

Max strips out of his robe, and takes Ravi's hands as the alpha helps him slowly lower into the bath. He's very big now, so the water threatens to spill over the edges as he finally settles at the bottom. 

 

"I'm like a beached whale," Max sighs sadly, rubbing some suds over the mountain of his stomach.

 

"You're perfect," Ravi answers reflexively —as he has had to a million times over the past nine months— and fetches the measuring cup they've been using during Max's bath times. He plunges the cup into the water, and then carefully pours it across Max's locks, wetting them. "Now, come here," he says, pouring a bit of shampoo into the palm of his hands, and massaging it into the omega's scalp.

 

Ravi really doesn't need to do this part, but it feels lovely, and Max doesn't want to tell him to stop, so he sighs, and reclines backwards, resting his head against the porcelain edge of the tub. "This is nice. Let's stay here all day," he mumbles, smiling when Ravi chuckles in response.

 

"You might get pruney, love," he answers logically, and when Max's head is properly shampooed, he pours warm cupfuls of water over the locks, washing away the suds.

 

Max hums, thinking his mate is so smart and handsome and generous as he basks in the attention bestowed upon him until the water gets too chilly for him to remain in the tub any longer. Ravi grips his hand and slowly helps him to his feet, and they go painstakingly slowly as Max lifts first one, then the other, foot out of the tub and stands on the bathroom rug as the alpha towels him off. 

 

It's when Ravi is kneeling in front of him, rubbing his legs vigorously, that the alpha pauses. "Um….Max…"

 

Max rests his hands on his belly, and is about to ask what's wrong, when his stomach cramps suddenly. "Ow.." he winces.

 

"You're still wet," Ravi explains, but Max can't see him because the alpha is peering between his legs, under his belly. But he doesn't need to ask Ravi to clarify what he means. Max would only still be wet after being towelled off for one reason.

 

His water broke. He's gone into labor.

 

"Oh wow," he says, his heart beat speeding up a bit as he thinks about what they need to do next.

 

"Yup," Ravi says, standing up quickly. "Okay, stay calm, priya. This is a good thing," he says, smiling brightly, and fetching Max's robe. 

 

Max nods because, of course, Ravi is right. This is the day he's been wishing for—the moment he finally gets to have the babies, and return to a normal physical state. He won't be huge and awkwardly proportioned any longer. He won't need Ravi to help bathe him and climb up and down the stairs. He'll be able to sleep in their bed again.

 

Still, fear seizes him. Max has been researching the birthing process, and is keenly aware of all the horrible things that could happen while delivering one baby, let alone two. "Can you get my dads?" he asks meekly, but thankfully Ravi doesn't judge him.

 

Rather, his mate utters a swift, "Of course, of course," and hurries from the bathroom.

 

***

 

Even though Arthur and Eames are hardened veterans, both of war and of child-rearing, they react less than calmly when Ravi charges downstairs to announce Max has gone into labor. Weirdly, his siblings appear much calmer when they invade the master bedroom, while Max is busy pulling out his overnight bag in preparation for his hospital stay.

 

"Holy shit! You're about to pop!" Jack laughs joyously, taking Max's bag from his hands.

 

"Oh my God. Max, this is so exciting," Rose gushes, kissing him messily on the cheek.

 

Max wrinkles his nose, but smiles at his siblings. This is the nice, exciting part because his contractions haven't started yet. He feels pretty calm, but he'd feel better if he knew where his fathers were. Just when he opens his mouth to inquire about their locations, Arthur and Eames come barging into the room.

 

"Well done, ducky!" Eames crows, like he does every time Max reports the effects of something he has no control over: being fertile, getting knocked up, and now having the babies. Still, this time he smiles at his father because he's finally realized Eames says those words not to be condescending, but because he's actually happy, and for his alpha father, this is the best possible fate for an omega: married to a kind, wonderful alpha, and now delivering hopefully healthy babies.

 

"Are you having contractions? Do you feel pain?" Arthur drills, eyes urgent and wary as he looks at Max.

 

"No, not yet. My water broke, though," Max says, still feeling nervous as everyone looks at him expectantly, like he's a time bomb or something.

 

"Okay, someone tell Frank to pull our car around. I'm driving. Jack, you're in charge of the overnight bag. Rose, help me with Max," Arthur instructs swiftly, and everyone starts moving in a confusing blur.

 

"Wait, I want Ravi," Max says, and thankfully his mate appears, as if out of the ether, in the doorway.

 

"I'm here, priya. I'm right here," he says, taking Max's hand, and carefully escorting him down the stairs.

 

Pressed against the alpha's side, he calms slightly, and focuses on breathing in Ravi's scent. Surrounded by his mate's musk, descending one step at a time, it's almost meditative, until they're standing in the living room in the middle of chaos again.

 

Max is somewhat used to this hurricane of movement being from a large family, but this is nuts even by their family's standards. Arthur is like a general in some war, barking orders at his foot soldiers, who run around in a frenzy. Max's gaze drifts to the television, which is still on, broadcasting one of his shows that Arthur always makes fun of.

 

"Do you think I'll have a TV in my room?" he asks idly.

 

Ravi squeezes his waist gently. "We'll make sure you do, love."

 

***

 

There is indeed a television in his room, but Max isn't really able to enjoy it because his contractions start on the way to the hospital. No amount of reading and preparing could have actually prepared him for what it's like, but thankfully Ravi is a constant, calming presence at his side, holding his hand through the worst parts of them.

 

Not for the first time, he is deeply appreciative that Arthur is a terrifying omega, and Eames is his loyal alpha because they basically have the whole hospital working for them two seconds after their arrival. The nurses seem afraid _not_ to check on Max every five minutes, and keep offering to bring him things he doesn't really need. But every time they appear, Arthur nods, pleased, and that seems to be thanks enough.

 

When the doctor is running a little late, Eames offers to go find him, and Max immediately cries for him not to because images of the poor doctor, strung up by his ankles, fill his head. His father is normally a rational alpha, but not when it comes to caring for his children.

 

His beloved brother, meanwhile, seems to have no concept of what child birth actually entails because he keeps offering Max things to eat that he most certainly cannot eat right now—a Snickers bar, _really_? And when he's not doing that, he's shamelessly flirting with the nurses, who don't seem to be putting up much of a fight.

 

"Jack, could you please focus on the fact that our brother is in labor?" Rose finally hisses, glaring at him.

 

"I'm just trying to lighten the mood," Jack says innocently, but he must feel guilty because after that he volunteers to take over for Ravi on hand-holding duty, and lets Max crush his fingers during the next few contractions. "Holy shit, you're strong," he winces.

 

"Hurts," Max whispers.

 

Jack frowns. "You got it. You're a tough omega. Like dad," he says.

 

Max smiles weakly because it's a lie. He's nothing like Arthur. But Jack is being nice, and trying to instil him with confidence. It's one of the nicer things Jack has done for him, so he squeezes his brother's hand, gently this time, in thanks.

 

Having a better grasp on this whole birthing thing, Rose brings him ice chips that he sucks on morosely, though his expression brightens a little when Ravi returns for hand-holding duties. 

 

"How are you?" the alpha asks quietly.

 

"Your kids are being brats," he responds playfully, warily glancing at the monitor that will herald the next contraction.

 

"I should have warned you. I come from a long line of terrible children," Ravi responds in mock seriousness.

 

Max grins, but before he can respond, Eames comes stalking into the room and announces: "I think this bloody doctor is dodging me."

 

Arthur looks up from his permanent spot, perched on the window sill, like an emperor on his throne, or a cat, coiled, and ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation. "Probably because the nurses warned him a wild-eyed alpha is looking for him," he says, smirking affectionately.

 

Mumbling something incoherent, the alpha crosses the room to check on Max. "How're you feeling, ducky?"

 

When Max looks at his father, he focuses on looking alert and peppy to ease Eames' concern. "I'm okay. Really. Sit with us, okay?"

 

He's mostly hoping to coax his father into staying in the room, as opposed to creepily patrolling the hallways as he's been doing for the past hour. Max is a little afraid one of the nurses will call the police on Eames.

 

"Come here," Arthur says, and sets aside the newspaper he'd been half-reading. As his mate approaches, Arthur grips his broad shoulders and squeezes them comfortingly. "You're crazy, you know that?" he asks, voice lowered playfully before he kisses Eames' brow, then his lips.

 

"Just worried," Eames sighs, but his entire posture is different now—less tense in the shoulders.

 

"You wouldn't have to worry if the stupid doctor would show up," Rose mutters, turning on the TV, and flipping it to Max's station where all of his terrible shows live.

 

***

 

Eames forgets to hate Frank for a few minutes when the other alpha shows up with the doctor in tow. 

 

"Hey, look who I found," he says, pointing with his thumb towards the doctor, who at least has the courtesy to look a little nervous and sheepish when he locks gazes with Eames.

 

"Sorry about that. We've got a full house today," he explains, hurrying over to check on Max before Eames has time to leap across the room and murder him.

 

"It's okay," Max soothes, offering a little smile. He knows his father can be intimidating, and he really doesn't want the man in charge of delivering his children to feel stressed.

 

The doctor looks at the monitor for a long time, then peaks under Max's gown to see if he's dilated. At the end of the inspection, he pats Max's knee sympathetically. "I'd suggest you all get comfortable. This is going to be a while."

 

***

 

Max is beginning to think he's going to live forever at the hospital. It's been twelve hours now—half a day in which the contractions have been occurring with more intensity and frequency. The entire family works together to keep him preoccupied and entertained, and Jack and Frank have even set aside their obvious disdain for each other and invented a game that involves a pair of rolling chairs—the goal of which is for them to race across the room without using their feet.

 

It's pretty hilarious, especially when Jack shoves Frank off his chair, and an angry nurse hurries into the room to tell them they can't do that—no, not even if they call it _Alpha Derby._

 

Plus, Frank doesn't make fun of his show. He even watches it quietly, and gets super into it—asking the names of the characters and everything.

 

When the pain gets bad, Arthur sits with him and rubs his lower back in exactly the right spot (Arthur knows this spot because it always seized up on him during labor too), and Ravi is magic—knowing exactly when to appear at Max's side, and when to retreat and leave the omega alone to meditate through the worst of it.

 

The pain is excruciating near the end when a contraction slams into him like a train. A terrible cry rips from his throat and he curls up on his side even as hands try to coax him into relaxing and laying on his back. He can't, he _can't_ , and Max closes his eyes so tightly that tears stream down his face. Someone is stroking his hair gently, and when he inhales deeply, Max knows it's his father—the unmistakable scent of an alpha flooding his nose. Eames' presence is incredibly comforting, and Max instantly relaxes enough so they can rock him onto his back.

 

"Dad," he croaks.

 

"I'm here," Eames answers immediately.

 

"This sucks."

 

Eames chuckles and strokes his forehead: "I know, ducky."

 

***

 

"Remember when we used to sit in my room and talk about getting married to alphas, and being so skeezed out by the idea?" Rose asks, grinning broadly.

 

His sister is seated on the edge of the bed, having taken over hand-holding duty from Ravi. She's watching the green lines of the monitor like they're going to tell her the future, and in a way, they kind of are.

 

Max smirks and nods a little. The last contraction was a doozie, and he doesn't know how many more of those he can withstand before he begs the nurses to knock him out.

 

"Funny how time changes things, huh?" she asks, resting a hand gently on Max's stomach—the stomach, it occurs to him, that won't exist in a few more hours, once the babies are no longer in there.

 

Max nods slowly, watching his sister's hand: "You still hate the idea of marrying an alpha?" he asks hoarsely.

 

Rose looks at him thoughtfully for a beat and shrugs before answering, "Nah, I know some good alphas now."

 

***

The doctor decides it's time for a C-section when Max's body refuses to fully dilate, though no one is surprised because Arthur braced Max and Ravi for that possibility, since all three of his deliveries were via Caesarean. Still, Max feels nervous at the idea of the babies being cut out of him, and he squeezes Ravi's fingers tightly as that doctor explains what comes next.

 

"Can Ravi stay with me?"

 

"Of course," the doctor responds, calmly standing there in his green scrubs.

 

"And my dad?" Max asks, looking at Arthur. Not Eames. Eames will kill anyone who approaches Max with a scalpel when the protective alpha part of his brain kicks into gear.

 

"If you want, but no one else," the doctor says—polite, but firm.

 

Arthur steps forward rest his cool hand on Max's brow. "We'll be with you the whole time," he says.

 

***

 

Max enters the delivery room with his father and husband, and leaves with two tiny babies, who emerge from him with full heads of dark hair and beautiful caramel skin. Ravi decides right then and there, the first to emerge, the girl, will be called Aadita, or _from the beginning_. The second born, the boy, will be called Charles, Max explains to his family later, when the drugs have worn off, on the way back from the hospital.

 

He glances up and catches his father's pleased gaze in the rearview mirror—pleased because _Charles_ is Eames' real name, and it was also Eames' father's name, who Max never met.

 

The babies are gorgeous and perfect, and Max is hugely jealous anytime anyone else is holding them, but they're also alphas, and as such, they're natural born screamers.

 

Aadita and Charles cry, and cry, and cry, until Max passes out from exhaustion, and Arthur later wakes him to feed the babies, which he does, and then passes out again. But when he awakes, the babies are still crying, and Max grows worried. He frowns down at their little red, angry faces as they wail, and does everything to quiet them, but nothing works. Even Arthur is at a loss. He says he's tried it all: rocking them, rubbing their backs, taking their temperatures to see if they're feverish (they're not). 

 

The babies almost stopped crying once when Ravi appeared above their cribs, but the peace only lasted for a couple minutes before they explode in tears again.

 

They're huddled at the kitchen table, forming a game plan about what to do, and Arthur has just convinced Max they need to take the babies back to the hospital to see if anything is seriously wrong.

 

But just then, the crying stops.

 

Max and Arthur's gazes are identically huge when they stare at each other in disbelief before hurrying upstairs to make sure the babies haven't escaped out the nursery window. And there, leaning over the crib, is Frank, who is making all kinds of ridiculous faces at the babies. Aadita and Charles are enraptured, watching this strange alpha humiliate himself for the sake of a moment's peace.

 

"Frank," Arthur gasps, which grabs the alpha's attention. "You're like the baby whisperer."

 

He stops making the faces and looks up in surprise at them, but the second he looks away, Charles whimpers.

 

"No, don't stop," Max whispers frantically.

 

Frank furrows his brow, but then sticks his tongue out at Charles, who gurgles happily. "How long do I have to do this?" Frank asks, though the words are garbled because he's currently pretending to eat his upper lip, a move Aadita seems to love.

 

"Forever," Max sighs, but he only half-means it in his delirious state.

 

Frank becomes their quasi-official babysitter after that moment. Max briefly worries Ravi will be jealous, but he seems more grateful than anything else. Hearing his children cry incessantly must have been doing terrible things to his nerves, and once Frank gets them to stop crying that first time, Ravi is able to hold the babies without them throwing a fit, and suddenly Aadita and Charles become ecstatic whenever they lay eyes on their father.

 

In particular, Aadita loses her mind, arms flopping frantically as she squeals.

 

"She's a daddy's girl," Ravi correctly notes.

 

***

 

Once Max is healed from the surgery, Arthur and Eames corner him in the kitchen with a proposal. Once he graduates, they want him and Ravi to move back to California. 

 

"There's lots of good lab work out there. We can set Ravi up with a good job," Eames explains, nonchalantly cradling his tea cup in his large hand. "And you'll be close to us, so we can help with the sprogs."

 

It's not a terrible idea. Max's homesickness never fully went away, he's going to need help with the babies, and it would be nice if they could keep Frank on retainer, if only occasionally. The idea of being in the same neighbourhood as Arthur and Eames makes him feel warm and safe, and he realizes he wants his own children to have the same upbringing he and his siblings enjoyed.

 

"Let me talk to Ravi about it," he says, but judging by the looks on Arthur and Eames' faces, he might as well have said yes.

 

Their reactions turn out to be prophetic because Ravi confesses he's been considering the move himself, and just like that, they decide after Max graduates they'll return to the west coast, Frank and all.

 

***

 

Rose leans against the doorframe and watches Frank, of all people, cradle Charles, lulling the baby to sleep. He really does appear to have a special gift for quieting the babies, something the entire house appreciates. 

 

"You're really good with him—them, both of them," she corrects quickly, inexplicably nervous.

 

When Frank looks up, she notes the bags under his eyes, the three days worth of stubble on his jaw. Like the rest of them, the alpha hasn't been sleeping well, quietly enduring his role as surrogate parent.

 

"Thanks," he says, without sarcasm or spite, and Rose wonders if this is perhaps the first time anyone has thanked the man for his hard work. As he rocks the baby back and forth in a soothing motion, he glanced at her again. "You talk to your dad yet?" 

 

Though the question is deliberately vague, Rose knows he's alluding to their porch conversation, when Frank was able to see through her layers of deception. "Not yet," she confesses, smiling thinly. "Didn't seem like the right time." Rose would have felt selfish bringing up the dreamshare conversation when Max was in labor, and there hadn't been a good time since then either.

 

Frank nods slowly, rubbing the baby's back until he carefully lowers Charles into the crib beside his sister. "You do know your dads were on the original Inception team, right?" Frank asks nonchalantly, like they're discussing the weather, his gaze fixated on the babies the entire time.

 

Rose stares at him from her spot, leaned against the doorway. She's waiting for him to laugh, or smirk, to show he's pulled one over on her. This is one of Frank's weird jokes again.

 

Except, the man doesn't laugh. Instead, he looks up and stares back at her. "You knew that, right?"

 

Since becoming interested in dreamshare, Rose has been voraciously consuming information about the profession, so of course she's heard of Inception. Of course she heard of a team of shadowy figures that _allegedly_ performed Inception on Robert Fischer, who _allegedly_ broke up his father's empire because of an idea implanted in his mind by a team of criminals. Of course she's heard those tales, but no one has ever been able to confirm the identities of those responsible for the job.

 

"Your Uncle Dom, too," Frank continues, "And Yusuf…And your Aunt…Audrey, is it?"

 

"Ariadne," she corrects, her face feeling numb.

 

Frank nods. "Right. Ariadne. Her too."

 

When Rose realizes her mouth is hanging open slightly, she closes her jaw and presses her lips together. It makes sense, in a weird way—all of these people in her life she calls _aunt_ and _uncle_ , even though they're unrelated by blood. Not to mention the men who kidnapped Jack. The men who took Arthur. The missing photos. The dodged questions. The PASIV under Ariadne's bed. She knew her fathers were dreamers, why is it so hard to believe they were part of the original Inception team?

 

"Shit," she gasps, laughing a little because she's nervous and the whole world is transforming before her eyes.

 

"I'm not trying to start shit," Frank says. "I just think you should know that's who your dads are, so maybe they'll…you know…understand."

 

Nodding slowly, Rose pushes off the doorframe, her arms wrapped in front of her chest—partly to warm herself because suddenly the room is chilly, but also subconsciously to protect herself. Maybe Frank is right. After all, Jack said Arthur had been surprisingly understanding when her brother confronted him about the possibility of working in dreamshare, so Rose knows she needs to be brave and have the talk with her father.

 

"You're right. I need to talk to them," she says, smiling slightly.

 

The alpha looks like this might possibly be the first time anyone has ever accused him of being right before, and at first he eyes Rose suspiciously before he realizes the beta isn't be facetious and is actually thanking him. 

 

"Oh…good," he says, nodding.

 

"Thanks," Rose says, smiling as Frank transforms from wise elder to awkward, unmated alpha right before her eyes.

 

"Jesus. Just go talk to them," he mutters.

 

***

 

Rose does, and Arthur must have seen it coming because he doesn't yell or scream. He sits quietly at the kitchen table, head bowed slightly as he listens, while Eames leans against the kitchen counter behind him, eyes fixed on Rose.

 

They make her the same offer Jack got: a letter of recommendation, but only for legal work.

 

"If you go underground, we'll revoke our blessing. I know I can't stop you, but I won't condone it," Arthur says, finally looking up.

 

"I won't. I promise," Rose says quickly, already out of her chair, arms thrown around Arthur's neck. "Thank you. Dad, I'm so, so happy. Seriously."

 

Arthur chuckles reticently: "Okay…okay…" he says, caving and wrapping his arms around Rose.

 

"There's just nothing else like it," she confesses against his shoulder, half-draped across his lap, like she used to sit as a child.

 

Arthur is quiet for a long time, but he eventually whispers: "I know what you mean."

 

From behind them, she distinctly hears her other father sigh: "Bloody hell."

 

***

 

Rose and Jack help their brother and Ravi move across country. Logistically, it makes sense because they'll all be operating out of California soon, since that's where Arthur has secured them some legal dreamshare work. At first, Rose expressed reservations about working with her brother because she's eager to carve out her own identity in the field, but then the idea of working with someone she trusts grew on her. Her fathers met in the business, and things worked out well for them, so maybe having Jack at her side will turn out to be an asset.

 

Max and Ravi bought a cute house a couple blocks from Arthur and Eames—a place big enough for the twins, plus a couple other kids, if they decide to expand their family. Her brother is adorably flustered, as usual, as they move the boxed into their respective rooms, cradling Charles in his arms, while Aadita naps in her bassinet. He must have fallen asleep in the car because his hair is sticking up in strange directions, and he looks a little overwhelmed standing in the empty living room.

 

Rose walks up to him and gently takes him by the shoulders. Even though Max is taller than her now, it has done nothing to shift the power dynamics between them. "Honey, why don't you sit down?" she cajoles gently.

 

"Okay," Max says softly, allowing himself to be escorted to the couch—the one lone piece of furniture in the room, and sits down with the baby. "I just have so much to do, and I don't think Ravi knows where everything goes."

 

"We'll figure it out, okay?"

 

She sees the moment it registers with Max—the fact that their family is reunited again in the same state, and there's no need to rush these things because Rose only lives a couple miles away, as does Jack, and their parents are only a few blocks away. Max smiles slowly, the tension draining from his eyes. 

 

"Okay," he says again, but this time she knows he means it.

 

***

 

Rose rings the doorbell and waits.

 

When the door opens, Peter is standing there, which is somewhat of a surprise because she didn't know he was visiting home.

 

"Oh…hey," she says.

 

"Hi," Peter says immediately, his brow furrowing slightly. "Um…Did you need to talk to my dads?"

 

Rose stuffs her hands in the pockets of her hoodie and shrugs. "Well, the Alden family in general," she says, smiling. "Arthur wants to invite you guys over for dinner. Abby can come too. I think he wants to have a baby fashion show."

 

Peter laughs, shaking his head. "That sounds about right."

 

There's an awkward pause, and Rose very nearly says something like, _well, see you later_ , but Peter speaks first: "So…you live around here now?"

 

"Yup," she says, nodding. "It's cool because I'll get to see Max and Jack more. You seen Jack lately?"

 

But Peter apparently misses the question because he blurts out: "Want to get coffee sometime?"

 

Surprised, Rose blinks a few times. "I thought…don't you live in Arizona?"

 

"Yeah, but I'm here for a couple weeks, and I figured…" Peter trails off, looking like a man barely managing to tread water.

 

And for the first time ever, Rose finds she doesn't immediately want to run from this situation as fast as humanly possible. Rose is in dreamshare now, and she has her own place, and she's not afraid of alphas or the unknown.

 

"Sure," she says, feeling happy and powerful when Peter's face lights up in return.


	35. Arthur and Eames babysit the twins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames babysit the twins

Two weeks after moving into the neighbourhood, Max arrives on their doorstep with a baby carrier seat in each hand and a hunted look in his eyes.

"Help," is the only thing he says before handing one of the seats containing Aadita to Arthur, and then walks straight into the house. Arthur only just manages to slip to the side to allow his passage, and blinks dumbly as he gazes down at his little granddaughter, who stares back at him with wide, dark eyes. Both Aadita and Charles came out with full heads of hair, and hers stands out in all directions around her crown.

"Are you okay?" Arthur asks as he shuts the door and then carries Aadita into the living room where he places the carrier on the floor nearby where Charles is resting. "Where’s Ravi?"

Sprawled out on the couch, Max rests the back of his head against the couch and sighs towards the ceiling. “Getting the milk bag from the car. Dad, you have to watch them so we can go out,” he mumbles, eyes closed, and brow furrowed.

Arthur smirks, not totally devoid of compassion, but because the exhaustion on his son’s face looks so familiar. He moves to the couch, flops down, and sympathetically pats Max’s knee. For weeks after bringing Jack home, he and Eames ran on zero sleep, so he can’t imagine what Max and Ravi must be going through now with  _two_ babies. 

"I kept calling Ravi the wrong name all day. Think I called him Jack like fifty times," Max mumbles, already sounding like he might drop off right then and there on the couch. Arthur covers his mouth and tries not to laugh during Max’s sleepy confession. When Max’s head rolls to the side, he cracks open his right eye and spots Arthur’s amused expression, so he swats at his father’s arm lightly. "Don’t laugh. We need alone time."

"Where’s Frank?" Arthur asks, fingers dropping away from his mouth, a fond smile still curling his lips.

"He said he had a family emergency around the third night the babies kept us all up crying," Max sighs.

Arthur nods slowly. That means Frank is hunched over a blackjack table somewhere, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows, sweating through the cheap cotton of his shirt. They’ll be lucky if he doesn’t lose the entire (meager) savings he’s managed to horde during his time as Max and Ravi’s paid nanny. But for Frank to bail, that means things must have been really bad. “Do they have a fever?” he asks, leaning forward on the couch to peer down at the babies, who look too alert and chipper to be ill.

"No, they just set each other off," Max grumbles.

Nodding thoughtfully, Arthur leans down and sticks his tongue out at Charles, who responds with an open-mouthed, playful smile that rather reminds him of his namesake, Eames. The babies seem fine now, but Arthur knows that might just be a clever ploy so he lowers his guard. He remembers how Jack and Rose would set off each other—usually Jack would start crying first, but his sister was always close behind with her own shrieking harmony. The second they got Jack calmed down, Rose would wail, and start the whole thing over again.

Those tantrum cycles rarely occurred, but when they did, they’d be lucky to sleep one or two hours over the course of a couple days. 

Ravi arrives a few minutes later, looking no better off than Max with his unbuttoned, stained shirt collar, stubble, and eye bags. “Hey,” he sighs, immediately reaching into his messenger bag to pull out a couple glass bottles. “Okay, priya. I warmed the milk. Should be good to go,” he says, crossing the room and handing one of the bottles to Max.

Arthur stands between the kitchen and living room, watching them start the carefully choreographed routine of feeding the twins. He’s seen them do it a few times, and it’s always the same: Max takes Charles, Ravi handles Aadita (they call her Aady, over Arthur’s stringent complaints), and then proceed to feed the babies with the bottles. Max pumps his breast milk ahead of time as opposed to the undignified prospect of having a child attached to each of his breasts. 

"Dad says they’ll watch the kids," Max whispers conspiratorially to his husband while they feed the babies, even though Arthur hasn’t actually agreed to the arrangement. It’s a subtle power move, the kind Max claims he’s incapable of making, and then pulls off flawlessly with a look of mock innocence in his eyes.

Not that Arthur had any resistance to the idea of spending time with his grandchildren, but the desperate look in Ravi’s eyes seals the deal when he gazes over to Arthur. “Really?” he breathes, and actually looks like he might cry from relief.

Arthur smiles benevolently. “Of course, guys. Jesus, go get some sleep.”

***

"Bloody hell, I’m having war flashbacks," Eames says when he returns home with armfuls of groceries. Arthur is parked in the living room, Aadita draped over his shoulder, while he rocks Charles’ carrier with the tip of his bare toes. He smirks at his mate’s words, knowing he means the scene is reminiscent of their time as young parents, when Arthur would sit on the couch with Jack in his arms, while Rose played on the carpet, or bounced like a madwoman in her play seat.

"They’re working on a tantrum. I can feel it," Arthur says, rubbing Charles’ little back in comforting, gentle circles. Occasionally, the baby dribbles some milk onto the cloth draped across Arthur’s shoulder. As soon as Max and Ravi had finished feeding the babies, they ran, babbling something about sleep, and calling them later. For all Arthur knows, they’re hightailing it to the Mexican border, but he’s pretty sure they love the babies too much to ever permanently leave them.

Eames hums thoughtfully as he unpacks the groceries and places them in their respective homes. “You always did have a sixth sense for that stuff,” he says. When the groceries are put away, he walks into the living room and immediately steals the attention of both babies. Arthur places Aadita on his lap so she can properly see her grandfather, and Charles kicks his feet gleefully the second he lays eyes on Eames. “Hallo, my sweet things,” Eames coos, leaning down to pull a face at Charles, who immediately cracks up, squealing loudly.

Chuckling, Arthur bounces Aadita on his knees slowly, allowing her to enjoy the attention from her other grandfather. It’s nice to see Eames in baby mode again, and it takes him back to when the kids were “the sprogs.” Watching how happy the babies make Eames causes something to tighten inside his chest, and for the first time in a very long time, Arthur finds he’s filled with a tiny bit of uncertainty. 

"Do you ever wish I hadn’t done it?" he asks, and when Eames gazes up at him in confusion, he adds: "Gotten the operation?"

During his pregnancy with Max, Dr. Ford had warned them that Arthur was getting older, which increased the likelihood of complications during childbirth. Even with all the wonders of modern medicine, it was not unusual for older omegas to die while giving birth, and that possibility had scared them both enough to agree to an operation that would stop Arthur from ever conceiving again.

Eames smiles down at Charles fondly and shrugs slowly. “I mean, we  _do_ make beautiful babies.”

Aadita’s little fingers curl around Arthur’s thumb, and he grins. “We do,” Arthur agrees.

"But no, darling. I’d much rather have you here with me, healthy, ready for new adventures," Eames says, standing up so he can lean over Arthur and kiss his forehead gently. Arthur closes his eyes to savour the sensation of his mate’s warm, full lips, and also to breathe in his scent. He’s struck by how vulnerable he feels in that moment, and Eames must sense it because instead of hurrying off to do whatever chore he’d planned on doing, he sits down beside Arthur, carefully touching his cheek. "Arthur…" he says quietly, waiting until the omega opens his eyes. 

Arthur’s eyes flutter open and he smiles self-deprecatingly because that impulse to quickly hide his emotions has never really fully gone away. “Sorry,” he begins, again reflexively packing up the little pang of pain to hide it, but Eames doesn’t allow Arthur to do that anymore and he knows he’ll have to explain himself, so he continues: “It just hit me that we’re never going to have that experience again, and…it’s stupid, and selfish maybe, but I loved raising the kids with you.”

The alphas makes a soft, sympathetic noise, and runs the pad of his thumb alone Arthur’s cheekbone before he leans forward to kiss his mouth. He melts into the embrace, careful not to jostle Aadita in the process, and smiles against Eames’ mouth right before they separate. Whenever he feels silly about his emotions, or vulnerable for divulging them, Eames has a way of comforting him.

"I loved those times too, pet. And I loved the stuff before it, and after it. I just want you, darling. I feel I’ve said that to you a thousand times, but I still mean it," he says, and of course it’s just the right thing to say, to the point where Arthur really doesn’t know how to respond, and sensing that, Eames kisses him again, giving Arthur a chance to express himself in a different way. "Say you love me, you twat," Eames purrs against his lips, and Arthur cracks up laughing, smiling so hard that his cheeks hurt as he gazes fondly at his mate’s face.

Eames’ eyes shine, and are so beautiful, that Arthur temporarily forgets Aadita is on his lap until she reaches between them and pulls at the front of his shirt. “I love you,” he whispers, but when Eames goes to lean away, he repeats the words with more urgency: “Eames, I love you,” he emphasizes, hoping the alpha can read the ocean of sincerity beneath and behind those words. Judging by the way he pauses and gazes at Arthur, his mate understands perfectly.

Of the two of them, Eames was always better at loving Arthur, but he’s a kind man, capable of waiting for Arthur to catch up.

The tantrum Arthur was positive laid festering just beneath the babies’ cherubic surface never manifests. Rather, Aadita and Charles spend the evening crawling all over their grandfathers, tugging and pulling at their clothes and hair, and enjoying the nonstop  _Eames Show_  that includes funny faces and silly voices. Really, Arthur can’t compete with the theatrics, so he plays the part in which he is most comfortable: point man, running to fetch supplies as the babies need them, being sure to always have the correct thing in hand at the right moment: bottle, spit-up rag, colourful toy. It’s just like the old days, except he’s not armed and running through Cobb’s disturbed mind.

They might just be lucky, but Arthur thinks they defeated the tantrum with good, solid teamwork. 

The babies go down easy, and stay asleep the remainder of the night (Arthur places them in a crib they’ve been keeping in Rose’s old room that they use whenever the twins visit). Arthur and Eames probably could sleep the remainder of the night, but instead they take turns checking on the babies every ten minutes. Between that time, they lay in bed, facing each other, talking sometimes, but mostly bridging the distance between them by clasping hands. Arthur keeps running the tips of his fingers along Eames’ palm, and the alpha lets him.

Max and Ravi emerge the next morning, looking slightly more fresh-faced, and also amazed, when they aren’t greeted by the sounds of crying.

"You guys are witches," Max accuses as he peers down at his children.

Eames leans against the doorframe and smirks at the befuddled expressions on their faces. “Yes, but please don’t tell the rest of the neighbourhood lest they burn us.” Once the twins are all bundled up, Max thanks them both emphatically, and Eames keeps saying things like, “Really, ducky. It was no trouble,” and, “I love seeing my grandchildren. Anytime. Any time at all.”

"We love you. Tell us if you need us again," Arthur says, kissing both Max and Ravi on their cheeks. The babies are still unconscious, mouths open, drooling blissfully. 

Max gazes at them in wonderment, mumbles, “Unbelievable,” and begins the walk back to the car, he and Ravi each gripping a carrier.

They watch the pair from the stoop, Eames’ arm casually slung around Arthur’s shoulder, the omega comfortably leaning against his side. “Was that ever us?” Eames asks, purring in amusement. 

Arthur grins fondly as he watches Ravi secure Aadita in the backseat, and then hurry to help Max with Charles. He refuses to let Max do any taxing labor, which is usually Ravi’s modus operandi.

He’s a good mate.

Max seems grateful, laying a quick peck on his mate’s lips before he flops into the front seat and waits for Ravi to finish securing the twins. “We were probably worse,” Arthur says, though it’s hard to remember exactly how he felt those years—those decades—ago. Vaguely, he recalls two fools, hopelessly in love, quaking in their boots at the thought of raising babies together. But they did it. They showed up everyone who thought they were too volatile together, they settled down and raised three healthy, relatively well-adjusted people.

Eames makes a noise with his mouth—one of his thoughtful hums, which makes Arthur look at him. “It’s your fault for seducing me,” he says lightly before blowing a kiss into the air Max’s way when their son waves at them as Ravi backs down the driveway. Before Arthur can formulate a response, Eames slips back into the house, so he has to chase him as he addresses that little bit of mythology.

"Um, excuse me?  _I_ seduced  _you_? I was in heat!” he exclaims, practically squeaking in outrage.

To which Eames laughs, and laughs.


	36. Arthur and Eames have everyone over for a holiday dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames have everyone over for a holiday dinner.

Arthur somehow convinces Eames it would be nice to have everyone over to the house for a holiday dinner. Meaning  _everyone_ : Jack and Rose, the Aldens (and Mama), the Cobbs (plus Ariadne), Yusuf, and of course the Lallas—Arthur has to remind himself every day that  _Lalla_ is Max’s new name. Even Frank is invited, a decision Arthur immediately regrets when the alpha shows up early —seriously, _who does that_?— and invades Arthur’s space in the kitchen.

Eames had to dash out last minute and grabs some items at the store, so Arthur is performing some remedial tasks in the kitchen: chopping veggies, making sure the oven is pre-heating, basically getting things in order for the master chef when he returns.

Frank hops up to sit on the edge of the counter so he can watch Arthur work. He’s practically breathing down the back of Arthur’s neck, which the omega knows he’s doing deliberately, so he focuses on ignoring Frank, even when the alpha swings his legs back and forth like a bored little kid. Arthur isn’t doing anything terribly interesting, only chopping a carrot, and yet Frank watches him like he’s disarming a nuclear warhead.

Finally, Arthur sighs in exasperation, calmly sets down his knife, and looks at Frank so the alpha can say whatever the hell is on his mind.

Frank’s hair is wild, one of the tuffs in front sticking straight up, and his bushy eyebrows quirk upward in amusement once he’s secured Arthur’s attention. If he had a tail, it would be wagging. Nothing delights the alpha more than getting under Arthur’s skin, a trait he shares with a certain Englishman who thinks he’s more charming than he actually is.

"Seriously, when are you going to leave your husband and run away with me?" Frank asks casually.

Arthur instantly bursts out laughing and shakes his head. “You’re such an idiot,” he says, reaching for the knife to resume chopping.

Judging by the sulk in Frank’s voice, Arthur can tell he’s pretending to pout. “What’s that fat Brit got on me?”

"For starters, I love him and I’m married to him."

"Details, details…"

"I have three children with him," Arthur explains, like they’re actually having a debate, as he dices the chopped vegetable into smaller pieces, per Eames’ instructions.

"They’re grown now. They won’t notice you’re gone," Frank counters, legs still swinging. He tries to steal a bit of carrot to eat, but Arthur swats his hand away. Why the hell is he trying to eat carrots anyway? Arthur doesn’t think he’s ever seen him eat a vegetable the entire time he’s known him.

Arthur sets down the knife again to look at Frank and his cheshire smirk. “You’re a terrible person.”

The playful expression vanishes and Frank looks at him very seriously. “Is this about the rumor that I have a small penis? Because I keep telling you that’s not true.”

Arthur is still laughing when Eames gets back with armfuls of bags. The Englishman staggers into the kitchen, grunting when he sets down the paper bags on the kitchen island. “Frank,” he says in greeting, nodding to the man, who in turn salutes the other alpha. He approaches Arthur and gazes over his shoulder to see the result of his labor. “Nice knife work, love,” he says approvingly before moving to the refrigerator and fetching two beers. 

When he hands one to Frank, the alpha hums approvingly. “You’re a prince, Eamesie.”

The mischievous gleam in his eyes temporarily vanishes when Arthur points at him with the tip of the Korin knife. “Don’t drink too much. I know he looks vanilla, but Edward will knock you out if you behave like you did over Thanksgiving. Leave Pat alone.”

Having the nerve to look like he has no idea what Arthur is talking about, Frank twists off the cap of the beer, tosses it into the sink, and takes a swig from the glass bottle. “Oh, you mean the little blond omega?” he asks, after swallowing. “I was just being friendly.”

"Yeah, well, be friendly somewhere else," Arthur says, putting down the knife on the chopping board.

***

The house is bursting at the seams, and Arthur ends up spending a lot of his time in the kitchen with Eames because there’s no way the alpha can prepare dinner on his own for thirteen people, without counting the babies. Arthur keeps apologizing while they’re rushing around, checking the Sicilian spiced Colorado lamb rack roasting in the oven, stirring pots (artichoke and black truffle soup), and tossing the contents of woks (chicken and broccoli), and Eames is a saint, replying calmly, “It’s all right, darling. At least no one is shooting at us.”

When things are running on autopilot in the kitchen, they finally emerge to visit their guests in the living room. Everyone always stereotypes omegas as being the baby crazy species, but the alphas are the ones spread out on the floor, cooing over the little ones. Edward has Abby on his lap, showing her off to the other alphas, who are offering typically generic baby compliments about how beautiful she is.

Arthur is so swept up in the moment of observing big, strong alpha behave like a bunch of clucking hens that he doesn’t notice Mama slide up beside him, cocktail glass in hand. “Arthur,” she greets icily, as is the custom whenever she speaks to him. He’s not sure how he offended her, but it’s extremely obvious she prefers Eames, and does not like him at all. In the slightest.

"Mary," he answers with the same exact level of frigidness because he can play that game too, smiling furtively when he practically feels the woman bristle at his side. He’s the only person who has the nerve to call her anything besides  _mama_.

"Thank you for having us over, my dear," she says, pausing to take a sip of her adult beverage, which from the looks of it, appears to be pure vodka. "I’m sorry you didn’t have a chance to clean up before we arrived."

NASA astronauts manning the space station could probably see the fury on Arthur’s face, judging by the way Max and Eames blurt out —from across the room— at the same time:

"Mama, come over here!" Max cries, holding up Charles to distract her.

As Eames vaguely calls: “Arthur, darling…”

***

Eames has joined the other alphas on the floor, and secures a twin for each leg, reclining the babies against his flanks, so Max can get a photo of them in their little Santa hats (which Arthur eyes suspiciously). “Charles,” Max sings, making a series of sounds until the baby looks up and he snaps a few photos. “Dad, move Aady a little to the left,” he instructs, and Eames complies, so Max can taken about a dozen more photos.

Then Max wants Arthur to pose with them, so he humors his youngest, and kneels behind Eames. It occurs to him that these will be some of the only photos of him and Eames together, since such nostalgic items were once considered dangerous pieces of evidence that could jeopardise their lives. 

"Wait, one more," Eames says, and then at the last second, turns so he can kiss Arthur. The room erupts in laughter at Arthur’s shocked expression.

Max grins toothily. “Got it!” he announces, and then resumes taking an absurd amount of photos of Ravi with the babies.

It’s Frank, of course, who hands Arthur a drink, and he sips it gingerly from his spot on the couch. This is the first time Arthur has a chance to relax, and he enjoys the serene moment, watching his family. Ariadne and Cobb are seated together, and she’s dabbing at the front of his sweater with a wet napkin because Cobb spilled something on the wool and she doesn’t want it to stain. The alpha is dressed festively for the party, sporting a holiday sweater with a reindeer print. 

It’s hideous, an unforgivable sartorial offence, and Arthur finds himself smiling softly watching them.

Jack and Rose are catching up with their unofficial cousins, Phillipa and James, who have grown a disconcerting degree. They’re adults now, and Arthur doesn’t normally feel the pressure of aging, but when he watches the kids he used to cradle in his arms recount their global exploits, it does make him feel a bit ancient. However, before he can descend into depression, Eames flops down beside him and drapes an arm around his shoulders. When Arthur leans into him, he smells scotch on his breath, and smirks.

"Did Frank get you drunk already?"

The ruddy complexion is a dead giveaway, but Eames still tries to look offended. “I am simply…enjoying the holiday festivities,” he says, nuzzling the side of Arthur’s face.

He nearly snorts laughing and shoves into him with his shoulder. Then he takes another sip from his drink because, right, it’s a party, and he should loosen up a little.

Max is going to have all kinds of blackmail evidence because he’s can’t drink (Pat and Max are still in the breastfeeding stages) so instead he snaps photos all night. He gets a shot of Cobb and Arthur talking, Cobb’s arm slung comfortably over the omega’s shoulder. Another of Frank talking to Phillipa in what the man probably hoped would be stage one of his seduction plan. Of course, what he hadn’t planned on was Phillipa being a highly aggressive alpha, who ended up scaring him off with her forward ways. 

There’s another picture of Jack and Eames play-wrestling in the middle of the living room before Arthur rushed in to split them up. Little vignettes: Peter speaking quietly with Rose beside the sliding glass door that leads to the backyard, Yusuf and Eames reminiscing about the old days, making themselves sick with laughter, Mama talking off Frank’s ear about the differences between northern and southern cultures. Arthur returns the favor when he grabs the camera to catch the moment Max feeds the babies their bottles, and Ravi reaches up to tuck a dark curl behind the omega’s ear.

Frank is successful in his mission to get everyone drunk, including Mama, who pauses from her filibuster just long enough to look at Rose and Peter, and declare. “Oh, for God’s sake. Just kiss her!”

Frank howls with laughter, slapping his thigh, when Peter turns a bright shade of red, and Rose grins wolfishly before grabbing him by the sides of the face and laying a kiss right on his mouth. They’re all just the right amount of drunk to find this hilarious, other than Peter, who looks a little glassy-eyed and dazed, and Rose, who is also smiling, but just at Peter.

"Jesus Christ. You’re a pistol. I like you. I like her!" Frank declares to the room, clinking glasses with mama.

At the time, Pat and Eddie are standing by Arthur, and the other omega eyes him warily. “That guy is Max’s nanny?” Pat asks.

Frank must overhear the question because he looks at Pat, purses his lips, and kisses the air. Pat immediately shies away, hiding behind Eddie, who thankfully doesn’t appear to have seen the display.

Years travelling, thousands of miles from home, don’t appear to have diminished James’ crush for Eames, which Arthur politely ignores for the sake of holiday time diplomacy, and also out of deference to karma’s strange mechanisms. After all, Mal was good enough to ignore his crush on Cobb when he was a young fool, so the least he can do now is do the same for James. Though, he does intervene when he overhears the young omega asking Eames: “So how much can you bench press anyway?” 

"Ooookay," Arthur says, sliding between the two and addressing the room in a loud voice: "Dinner starts in two minutes!"

***

Feeding the lot of them is an even more riotous affair than plying them with alcohol. The quietest guests are the babies, who remain secured in their high chairs, even though they won’t be eating any food, so Max and Pat can keep an eye on them. A cacophony of noise umbrellas the table, several conversations going on at once, until Eames stands up with his glass raised, and the commotion dies down.

"Right, um…I just wanted to thank you all for coming," he says, smiling a bit shyly, like he isn’t brilliant at extemporaneous speeches—with his purring baritone, and shining eyes, and…yes, okay, Arthur might be slightly drunker than he originally thought. He squints a bit and tries to focus on Eames’ words: "You’re all family to us. Cobb, mate, I’ve known you for years. You’re like a brother to me," he says, which Arthur knows is as much for his benefit as it is for Dom. Cobb is very important to Arthur, and the feud —put to rest finally— between his mate and his best friend always deeply hurt him.

Cobb raises his glance in thanks, and Eames continues: “Ravi, you’re my son now too, and you’ve been so good to our ducky. And the two of you make good-looking babies, I must say…”

"Here, here!" Frank crows around a mouthful of food, which Arthur notices he’s started eating without waiting for Eames’ toast to end. Under the table, Arthur kicks his shin, and Frank yelps loudly.

Eames chuckles. “Okay, I won’t prattle on. I love you, you motley crew. Welcome. Enjoy the food,” he says, laughing and waving his hand through the air dismissively when the table erupts in a chorus of cheers. “Shut up, you mongrels,” he laughs, sitting down so he can dig into the food placed in front of him.

Mama, ever the southern belle, converses throughout dinner, and luckily everyone is braced for her line of questioning. When asked how he knows Eames, Yusuf doesn’t skip a beat. “We’re childhood friends. Attended primary school in Africa.”

"My word. How interesting!" Mama cries. "Eames, I had no idea you were raised in Africa."

Eames nods calmly. “My father served in the military,” he answers, keeping his remark short, simple, and neat. Easy to remember and recall at a future date.

Everyone else follows suits: Arthur details how he knows Ariadne from growing up next door to each other, Cobb shares how he and Arthur met in ninth grade biology class, and of course Eames tells mama how he fell in love when he met a slim, dark-eyed private in the U.S. military during a bilateral morale-building program that never existed.

Jack casts Rose a secret glance across the table, and they share a smirk that Arthur wishes was a bit more discreet, even though he’s fairly sure he’s the only one who saw it. What mama (and the rest of the Aldens) don’t know is any of their real history in dreamshare, or how Jack and Rose are now training with Cobb in the legal side of the business. Cobb says they’re doing well, a comment that caused a prideful flare inside Arthur’s chest, a positively muted response in comparison to Eames, who grinned broadly at the news. But only until Cobb added: “Jack’s an even better forger than you.”

Then, the smirk dropped from his lips as he grumbled: “We’ll bloody see about that.”

After laying waste to the dinner, the omegas help Arthur tidy up as the alphas gather in the living room with the babies, who are up way past their bedtimes. Arthur makes coffee before anyone piles into their car to leave, to keep them alert during the drive back, and also to help sober up some of his more plastered guests. Luckily, the drunkest person appears to be Edward, and all he has to do is walk across the street.

The alpha pulls Pat onto his lap, and nuzzles his neck even as the omega tries to get Abby in her carrier. “Peter…can you…?” he implores, laughing every time Eddie grabs him around the waist and pulls him back down.

Peter rolls his eyes, but smirks as he helps secure his little sister in the carrier. 

Slowly, the guests filter out (the baby-toting couples exit first), and Arthur and Eames hug them goodbye. They depart in hushed voices, so as to not wake the children, and Arthur smiles fondly at the sleeping faces of his grandchildren. Peter carries Abby, while Edward leans against Pat a little as he smiles brightly and waves them adieu. Mama smiles sunnily at Eames, thanking him again and again, and hanging on his arm an unnecessarily long time as he escorts her to the door. Finally, she narrows her eyes and exits with a cool, “ _Arthur_.”

Next, Ariadne, the Cobbs, and Yusuf depart, and Dom is an emotional mess (as he always is during the holidays), hugging Arthur until Ariadne gently grips his arm and pulls him along. Jack and Rose help Arthur tidy up a bit more, and then they too leave, but not before Arthur shoves several leftover-filled pieces of tupperware into their hands, insisting they’re both too skinny.

Frank stays past the time everyone else has left —seriously  _who does that_?— loitering on their couch, feet kicked up on the coffee table, as he enjoys his fifth…or sixth…tumbler of whisky. “You guys throw a mean shindig,” he says, picking up the TV remote to flip through the channels until Eames comes over and stands between him and the cable box, deliberately blocking the path of the sensor.

Frank blinks at him in confusion until reality sinks in. “Ohhh…gotchya, chief,” he says, standing up slowly, and setting down the glass on the table.

Arthur smirks at him as he approaches the door, which is already open, anticipating his departure. Frank sighs deeply as he gazes at the omega. “One day, you’re going to look back, and see it was a mistake not to elope with me.”

"Goodnight, Frank," Eames calls from behind him.

Frank frowns deeply, shaking his head sadly, and mumbling: “He’s a mean man.”

"Night, Frank," Arthur says, but more gently.

"Night, kiddo," Frank answers, winking.


	37. Max doesn't want Eames to give him baths anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Max doesn't want Eames to give him baths anymore.

When the sprogs are small, they don’t really have personalities. They’re cute, and Eames spends hours just looking at them—partly in awe, but also because he’s possessed by the bizarre notion that they might stop breathing the second he looks away—but aside from that, they only have a few modes: sleep, fussy, and hungry. It’s not until they’re older, around two years of age, that they develop interesting traits and quirks.

Eames knows Jack is an alpha immediately. When the boy wants something, like a toy, he simply takes it from his siblings, and so Eames and Arthur spend a lot of time teaching their first born the importance of asking for permission and sharing. Rose is a classic beta, even down to the way she serves as a mediator between her brothers, hugging Max protectively if Jack is on one of his rampages.

And then there’s little Max. Eames knows he’s an omega from the time he starts following Arthur from room-to-room, terrified to allow his father out of sight. Omegas are generally very timid, and seek out authority figures, even if that protector happens to be another older omega. So in the beginning, Max likes being around Eames, and clings to the alpha even if they’re doing something mundane like watching television on the couch. For the first few years, Max watches everything Eames does with wide, worshipful eyes. To Max, Eames is the strongest, best alpha in the whole world, and Eames enjoys showing off with little feats of strength: picking Max up, whirling him around, as the boy squeals with laughter. 

His child brain divides the world into two categories: good alphas (Eames) and bad alphas (Jack). When Jack kicks over his lego houses and makes Max cry, Eames swoops in to first lecture his brother and then to sit on the living room rug to help Max reconstruct his devastated city. “It’s okay, ducky. We can fix it,” Eames says to the red-faced, sniffling boy, who nods morosely and begins collecting blocks.

But Eames’ favorite moments with Max are bath time. It’s the only time they’re alone, without even having Arthur around, and perhaps that’s why Max is able to really relax and have fun. It’s also an opportunity to spoil Max rotten. Normally, the children are strictly forbidden from entering the master bathroom, but Max is allowed to take his baths in the big porcelain tub. Jack always glares enviously at Max as Eames carries him down the hallway in the direction of the bedroom because he knows his brother is about to gain access to a room he won’t even see until he’s ten. Max gazes at his brother over Eames’ shoulder, and may look a little smugger than usual.

Eames fills the tub with warm water, and adds the suds Max likes to play with, along with his favorite bath time toys featuring rubber toys and a miniature warship. The dress code for Max’s bath time is always casual (jeans and a t-shirt) because Eames knows he’s going to be soaked to the bone by the end of it. He helps Max out of his jammies and then picks up the sprog and lowers him into the tub. Immediately, a wide smile breaks out across Max’s face, dimples indenting his cheeks.

"That good?" Eames asks, unnecessarily because Max is already splashing, sending suds flying up to stick to the tiles lining the wall. He smiles and kneels by the tub, dipping his hands into the water to make sure the water isn’t too hot, and then fetching Max’s shampoo bottle with the cartoon bird on the front, and the writing on the label promising  _No more tears!_ He squirts some of the clear liquid into his hand. “Ready for submerging?” Eames asks in his baritone Captain’s voice. Max clutches his toy warship and nods seriously. “All right. Countdown: three…two…one.”

Max takes a deep breath, pinches his eyes closed, and dips down beneath the water. He’s only gone for a split second before he bursts to the surface with a warrior’s cry, and Eames widens his eyes and smiles brightly. “Woah! Well done, ducky,” he crows, grinning as the little boy dissolves in laughter. Eames capitalises on this distraction by massaging the shampoo into his hair.

"Do the thing, dada" Max instructs.

"You got it," Eames replies, pushing Max’s thick hair into a mohawk, which he then shows the little boy in a handheld mirror. Max loves when he does this, and right on cue, he bursts out laughing again, eyes shining, face flushed from the warm water, but also the excitement of bath time. Afterwards, when all the shampoo and soap are washed off, Eames wraps Max in a soft towel, and has him stand on the bath mat while he drains the tub and tidies up. "Have fun?" he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

"Yes!" Max declares, smiling brightly.

This is their ritual for a long time, but one day things end rather abruptly. Eames goes to fill the tub, and add the suds, but when he turns around, Max isn’t hovering nearby, gazing earnestly at the tub. Rather, he’s lingering by the bathroom door, watching Eames warily. Eames kneels back on his heels and frowns. Maybe Max is sick. “You feeling okay?” he asks.

Max is shifting from leg-to-leg, nervously swaying. “Dada,” he says softly, glancing behind him in a way that lets Eames know he’s asking for Arthur.

Eames turns off the faucets and looks back to his youngest. “Dada is okay. He’s putting Jack and Rose to bed. Tonight is bath time. Remember?”

Strangely, the words do nothing to ease Max’s anxiety. When Eames extends a hand to him, he shrinks back further, retreating into the bedroom. “Dada,” he says again, insistently.

Eames frowns, replaying the entire day in his mind. Did he accidentally do something to frighten Max? But when he flips through his actions that day, nothing unusual springs to mind. However, he knows better than to press the matter. Eames stands up, and tries not to take it personally when Max shuffles away from him when he walks through the bedroom. “Wait here, ducky. I’ll get dada.”

Arthur gives Max his bath that night, and every night after.

Other times are still normal. Max will seek him out, and want to be wrapped in the protective embrace of Eames’ arms while they watch Max’s favorite shows, and the little boy still loves to play with his Legos, and to be picked up, but things are different when they’re alone. It’s then that Max suddenly become nervous, looking around for someone—anyone—else. 

Eames is starting to really worry when he brings it up to Arthur one day. He’s actually wondering why his mate hasn’t broached the subject first, considering it’s so obvious Max has developed this phobia of being around him. He decides it’s best to lay his cards on the table before Arthur thinks the worst: that maybe something happened between them, or that Eames has been abusive. He must look and sound a mess because Arthur comes right over, joins him on the edge of the bed, and cradles Eames’ hands.

"He’s afraid of me," Eames says, voice hoarse, the words sounding strange to his ears. Never in a million years would he have ever thought Max capable of being afraid of him, but here they are.

"I was the same way…at his age," Arthur says, offering a comforting smile, squeezing Eames’ hands. "You’re a wonderful father, Eames. He’ll get over it."

And while he can’t imagine Arthur ever being afraid of anyone, he also knows his mate never lies to him—even to sugarcoat bitter truths. “Why all of a sudden? He was never this way before.”

Arthur shrugs slowly. “Your pheromones maybe? He’s beginning to understand his place in the world, and it’s normal and healthy for omegas to fear alphas a little bit.” Listening, Eames nods. All of Arthur’s explanation makes sense, and still he finds it difficult to swallow past the lump in his throat. Arthur must notice because he leans over and sweetly kisses and nuzzles his cheek. “You just have to wait it out,” he whispers.

So he waits.

Eames learns to work around Max’s fears. If he sees the boy tensing, Eames makes sure to leave the room until other people are around to put Max at ease. When Eames asks Max if he wants to play, and he says no, Eames never pushes the matter. He never questions it, when seemingly out of the blue, Max comes to him, wanting to snuggle or play with his toy. Rather, he makes sure to cherish these moments like a man deprived of sunlight for many years.

Of course, Arthur is right, as he is about all things. If asked, Eames couldn’t put a pin on the moment that Max came back to him, probably because these things tend to happen gradually. Though he does remember a particular fight between Jack and Max, when they were really going at it, and knocking over things in their room. It was bad enough that Eames had to come charging in and drag Jack off Max, and he was feeling particularly cranky this given day, so he didn’t limit things to a time out.

All of the arrogance in Jack evaporates the second he lays eyes on Eames’, the owner of a face like thunder. Max is considerably less fearful, probably because he knows he was the victim in this altercation. “You don’t hit him. Do you know why?” Eames asks, voice loud and commanding in the small space of the boys’ room.

Jack is still breathing hard, but his voice is soft when he answers: “He’s my brother.”

Eames nods, because technically that’s correct, but it’s not the entire answer. “Why else?” His sons are very small standing in front of him, Jack casting a nervous glance Max’s way, like his brother might have the answer that could save him. But Max doesn’t see the hunted look in Jack’s eyes because he’s gazing up curiously at his father. Eames points at Jack as he answers: “Alphas don’t hit omegas. We protect omegas. Understand?”

Jack nods quickly, fingers picking at the buttons of his pajama shirt. “M’sorry, Max,” he mumbles.

Max accepts the hug from his brother, but he’s still watching Eames calmly the whole time.

Looking back, that might have been the first step in a series of moments that ultimately led to Max coming back to him. Perhaps Eames’ explanation enlightened him to the fact that Eames’ would rather die than ever hurt Max, and would indeed give his life protecting him (Eames demonstrates that years later when a man tries to kidnap Max at a fair). By then, if there were any doubts left in Max’s mind, the alpha’s actions permanently vanquish them. Eames is an alpha, yes, but he is an alpha who will protect Max with his last breath.

That night, Max sits with him on the couch, snuggled against his side even though Arthur is also on the couch, positioned at the boy’s other flank. Arthur casts a knowing, and arrogant, smile over Max’s dark head ( _I told you_ ), and Eames smirks in response ( _I know. I know, darling_ ).


	38. Post-party smut followed by fluff

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> post-party smut followed by shameless fluff (follows this drabble: http://archiveofourown.org/works/934778/chapters/2155823)

Once Arthur has successfully chased Frank from the house, he closes the door, and sets about tidying up after the guests, collecting glasses and plates and disposing of them in the kitchen. Feeling warm and fuzzy from the alcohol he drank during the party, Arthur doesn’t notice when Eames approaches as he’s leaning over the sink until the alpha’s arms wrap around his waist. He’s rinsing a plate at the time, and smiles when his mate’s warm mouth presses against the back of his neck.

Eames is tipsy too, bordering on drunk, which means he’ll want sex. Not that Arthur is at all opposed to the idea, but he wants to make Eames work for it to demonstrate even though they’ve been married for decades, that fact doesn’t make him a sure thing. It’s difficult to ignore his presence, though. Eames smells like bourbon and his cologne with the faintest hint of cigar smoke mixed in. But beneath all that is his lovely natural scent, and Arthur wants to do nothing more than spin around and bury his face against Eames’ neck to breathe him in. 

He resolutely ignores the alpha at his back, instead scrubbing one of the plates nestled in the sink with a sponge. Eames makes a wounded noise (Arthur can visualise the accompanying pout) and reaches past Arthur to turn off the faucet. “Don’t be a tease, darling,” he purrs, pressing his hips forward to pin Arthur against the edge of the counter.

The breath goes out of his lungs for a second, but returns a moment afterwards, which is how he’s able to keep his tone cool and detached. “Someone has to do the cleaning,” he says, moving to grasp the faucet again. He sounds composed, but if Eames reaches up to lay one of his large hands over Arthur’s chest, he’ll feel the frantic pounding of his heart, and the jig will be up. 

Eames grasps his hand before it reaches the faucet and pins it to the counter, using the heavier weight of his frame to keep Arthur splayed in place. “I think Frank has a little crush on you,” Eames murmurs, his lips pressed to Arthur’s ear. When he grinds his hips forward again, Arthur feels the alpha’s hard length straining against the fly of his pants and pressing against his rear. A wicked smirk breaks across Arthur’s face.  _Well, that was easy_. Eames nuzzles his cheek and Arthur turns a bit to inhale furtively. Instantly, he feels a bit dizzy when Eames scent floods his nostrils, and he moans softly.

He doesn’t know what to say about Frank. He doesn’t  _want_ to talk about Frank at all. He’d much rather have Eames take him to the bedroom and fuck him until he passes out. Fortunately, his mate doesn’t seem interested in a discussion because before he says a word, Eames continues: “You’re  _mine_ , Arthur,” he breathes, his chest a massive furnace against the omega’s spine.

He swallows thickly and nods, a pulsating sensation deep in his pelvis the first warning before a wave of moisture rushes out of him. Through the layers of underwear and slacks, Eames smells it, and growls approvingly. The alpha’s powerful arms loop around his waist and Arthur grinds back against him. He gasps when Eames responds by squeezing him tightly and shoving his hips forward. Eames is  _very_ hard, and it hurts a little when his mate ruts against his ass.

Arthur whimpers, but when he looks over his shoulder, Eames surges forward to kiss him hungrily and ungently, bruising his lips, but Arthur matches the frenzy, nipping and biting until Eames forces him to turn around and he throws his arms around his mate’s neck.

Eames breaks the clasp on his slacks when he shoves them off Arthur’s hips, but the omega doesn’t chastise him. Instead, he throws his leg over Eames’ hip and clings to him when the alpha shoves his hand beneath Arthur’s soaked underwear to plunge two fingers into him. A keen tears from his throat, and Arthur instinctively leaps up to wrap himself around Eames. His mate is thick and solid between his thighs, and easily catches him, but his fingers curl inside him during all the jostling. Arthur gasps, legs trembling as he gushes again, arms tense around Eames’ neck, their foreheads pressed together as he pants for breath—like they’ve just finished an epic sex marathon, and not at all like things were totally normal less than five minutes ago.

Arthur blames the alcohol. He absolutely refuses to believe under normal circumstances Eames can still have this effect on him after all these years, reducing him to a pathetic state where he’s like some bumbling, inexperienced teenager at the mercy of a testosterone-packed alpha. Yes, it must be all the alcohol, he decides as he squirms in Eames’ arms, and the alpha slowly walks them towards the open door of the bedroom. Arthur claws at the back of Eames’ head, messing his hair as they kiss and the alpha continues to expertly finger him, pressing just the right spot inside him to make Arthur whimper pathetically into his mouth.

Eames pulls away suddenly, and he responds with an embarrassing whimper, but the alpha kisses him quickly, and makes soft comforting noises. “Just a moment, love,” he whispers, setting Arthur down so he can set about undressing him. He’s grateful for the help because two tumblers of whisky have, for some reason, made it very difficult to slip the little buttons of his dress shirt out of their respective holes. Arthur reaches up, tugging stubbornly at Eames’ shirt, and glares at the offending fabric until the alpha chuckles and slides it over his head. Underneath, Eames is all muscles, tanned skin, and tattoos. He looks delicious, and once they’re both naked, Arthur immediately jumps into his arms again and attacks his lips.

He’s dimly aware that the alpha is laughing, probably at him and how pathetically he’s behaving, but Arthur is beyond the point of caring. They’re both nude, Arthur is soaked, and he can feel that Eames is hard, but frustratingly the alpha’s cock, while pressed against his rear, isn’t inside him yet. He digs his fingertips into the steep slopes of Eames’ trapezius muscles to demonstrate his displeasure. His mate snarls against Arthur’s mouth and throws them back against the wall none too gently, but everything feels good to Arthur at this point—even his head knocking back against the wall makes him moan.

When he realizes Eames is going to fuck him, Arthur presses back against the wall and hikes up his legs, which Eames helps support with his strong arms. Arthur touches his biceps reverently, then slides his palms up the alpha’s arms, and across his chest. Somehow, Eames is sexier in his older age—more imposing and dominant. The alpha’s beard is going to leave red, angry burns all over Arthur’s pale skin, but the rough drag of the grains against his flesh feels good, and he moans loudly when Eames bites welts into the curve of his neck. 

Eames reaches down to arrange the head of his cock, and when he presses forward, Arthur’s wet entrance greedily accepts him. Arthur’s head falls back against the wall again, and his eyes pinch shut when the room swims. A loud roar fills his ears, and he realizes it’s Eames, or actually both of them, groaning together as the alpha fucks him hard. Arthur’s upper back is going to be bruised from dragging against the wall, but he doesn’t care because the angle is delicious, and allows Eames’ cock to touch the spot inside him that makes him quake apart in his mate’s arms.

Eames’ pumps his hips forward, and Arthur’s hands fly up to brace against the wall so he can shove back against him, his other hand gripping Eames’ shoulder. His chin is pressed against his chest, stomach muscles contracted tightly beneath the rock hard column of his dick. Tentatively, Arthur lets go of Eames, and when he’s sure he’s not going to fall to the floor, grips himself and jerks frantically to keep up with his mate’s pace.

The alpha’s lower abdominals and crotch are coated with a colourless sheen, and when Arthur realizes it’s from the wetness leaking from his body, he feels lightheaded. “Eames,” he croaks, brow furrowed, eyes pleading as he gazes up at him. From the low angle, Eames looks bigger, muscles standing out against his skin from the strain of supporting Arthur’s weight—the veins in his neck engorged as he pants for breath. The sight makes the omega part of Arthur’s brain fire into high gear. He wants Eames to come inside his body and knot him, even though he’s not capable of having babies anymore. He wants to walk around reeking of the alpha’s scent so everyone will know he belongs to Eames, and he’s been freshly rutted by his mate. “Please,” he moans, drops of pre-cum leaking out of the head of his cock, and sliding down the shaft, the sac between his thighs pulled tight to his body.

Eames’ thrusts are rapid, brutal, and perfect. Tomorrow, Arthur will be bruised and walk around with a terrible crick in his neck, but it will have all been worth it. The alpha’s hips slap against his rear, and coax frantic yelps from Arthur until he pinches his eyes closed and his release erupts across his chest. 

The impulse to fall asleep is overwhelming, but distantly he hears the familiar baritone of his mate’s voice saying something, and Arthur forces himself to focus on what Eames is trying to tell him.

"Hold on to me, pet. Hold on."

Somehow, he finds the strength to open his eyes and reach up so he can wrap his arms around Eames’ neck. The alpha holds his hips and slowly backs towards their bed, and when they collapse onto the mattress, their twined forms bounce a bit, and Arthur bursts out laughing. Eames’ face is flushed and smiling when he gazes down at the omega, and he giggles too. Sometimes they get like this after sex, particularly after they’ve been drinking. 

He touches the sides of Eames’ face. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs quietly, still smiling, but willing himself not to laugh again. He doesn’t want Eames to catch his hysteria and forget what he was doing a couple of seconds ago.

"Wouldn’t dream of it," Eames chuckles, which makes Arthur laugh again, but only until Eames’ thrusts deeply into him.

His back arches off the bed and he moans throatily towards the ceiling. They finish that way, with Eames thrusting slowly into him, and the alpha eventually finds his lips, and Arthur moans into his mouth when he feels the familiar swelling inside of him.

***

The next morning, Eames can barely move.

He’s thrown out his back, of course. It’s only happened a few times: playing football in the yard with Jack, trying to carry several heavy packages from the garage that Arthur specifically told him not to carry on his own, and once after carrying both Aady and Charles up and down the stairs at Max and Ravi’s, but this is by far the most embarrassing reason for his incapacitation. 

"You can’t tell the sprogs," he moans miserably from the couch where Arthur has been doting on him dutifully all morning. Actually, it’s been rather lovely having his mate wait on him hand and foot to bring him things like breakfast and his tea.

"Oh too bad," Arthur calls from the kitchen. "I was so looking forward to saying, ‘Sorry kids, dad can’t come to the phone, he threw out his back fucking me against the wall.’"

Eames smirks up at the ceiling as he thinks back to his magnificent performance last night. Arthur might be an omega, but he’s more or less Eames’ height, and he’s rather proud that he not only held Arthur whilst fucking him, but made him come in that position. If he could move without wanting to cry, he might have done something really macho like kiss his biceps.  _You’re a prize stud, Charles Eames_. 

"You loved it."

Arthur’s face appears above him. He’s smiling. “I did,” he confesses, sitting carefully on the edge of the couch. “Think we need to go to the doctor?” he asks, lightly stroking back the fringe from his brow.

"Nah, just need a day of rest."

***

Of course, Eames should have never uttered those words aloud because it guaranteed the universe would conspire to bugger him. Their youngest arrives on their doorstep about an hour later, carrying a baby carrier in each hand. “Ravi is at work,” Max explains as he gently sets down the sprogs near Arthur in a clear indication that he needs a bit of help from his parents. When Eames cranes his neck up from the couch, he sees Max looks pale with bags under his eyes.

"Where’s Frank?" he asks.

Max looks over to him and sighs. “He said he had to go out of town for a couple days. Death in the family.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He knows for a fact Frank’s parents are dead and he has no siblings. “No problem. I’d love some time with my grandkids,” he says, smiling down at the babies, who are gazing up at him with wide, curious eyes. When he looks back to Max, his son looks tremendously relieved. “Go keep your dad company. He threw out his back again,” he says, picking up the carriers.

Max frowns in concern and immediately walks to the couch. “What happened?”

Eames hopes he looks innocent when he smiles, tight-lipped. “Just tweaked it lifting weights. No need to worry, ducky,” he explains, restraining himself from glaring in Arthur’s direction when the omega coughs loudly on his way from the room. When he hears the bedroom door shut, Eames knows Arthur has taken the babies in there to spend some time with them.

"Oh…" Max says, staring down at Eames, who is set up with a pillow and blanket, and is actually quite cozy watching some telly—a football match, to be precise. Max looks from Eames to the television, and then gazes longingly at his comfy set up again. Soon, Eames catches on. "Want to take a nap?"

Max frowns. “It’s okay. I don’t want to make you move.”

But Eames is already pulling back the blanket. The couch is wide enough for both of them, and so he waves Max forward. “Nonsense, come on.”

Max used to take naps with him all the time, and admittedly it’s been a while since they did this, but Max looks so exhausted that he doesn’t imagine his son is going to put up much of a fight over something as silly as pride. Sure enough, Max kicks off his shoes and hurries forward, carefully climbing under the blankets as he murmurs: “Thanks so much. I’m so tired, dad. Haven’t slept in like…a while.”

Eames smiles fondly when the omega turns towards him and rests his cheek against his shoulder. Draping an arm around Max, he comfortingly rubs his back. He remembers how sleep-deprived Arthur had been during Jack’s first year, and Max is going through the same thing with  _two_ babies. “Anytime you need us. Anything you need, ducky. We’re here.”

Max ends up sleeping for  _hours_. 

Occasionally, Arthur sneaks out from the bedroom to fetch bottles for the babies that Max brought in his bag, but when he checks on Eames, the alpha simply waves his hand to show he’s fine. Yes, his arm is asleep, and he’d really like to get up to use the bathroom, but he refuses to move lest he wake Max. Whenever he looks at his son’s face, he looks so peaceful that Eames tells himself to wait just a little longer. Just until Max gets the rest he needs.

Finally, Max begins to stir, and when his eyes open, he looks completely baffled to see his father laid out beside him. Then he glances over his shoulder to the television where an infomercial for a vacuum cleaner is playing (football matches ended about an hour ago). Brow furrowed, he looks back at Eames. “How long have I been out?” he rasps.

"Just a bit," Eames lies.

Max doesn’t believe him, of course. He sits up slowly and squints at the wall clock in the kitchen. When he gasps loudly, Eames knows he’s been made. “Oh shit,” he hisses, flying off the couch and hurrying towards the bedroom, but Arthur must have heard the commotion because the door opens just then. “Ravi will be home soon,” Max says to Arthur, a bit panicked. 

"It’s okay," Arthur says in the calming tone he always used when Cobb was being a nutter. "I just spoke with Ravi. He knows you’re here. He knows I have the babies. He’s okay, Max."

Eames grips the back of the couch and slowly sits up. He waits for his back to spasm in warning, but it never comes, and when he successfully manages to sit upright, he smiles smugly at Arthur, who had insisted he’d be laid out for a whole week because he stupidly thought he was a porn star last night.

Max doesn’t notice the ridiculous display because he’s too busy freaking out. “I haven’t cooked dinner,” he sighs, rubbing his face, which is still pale, but no longer marked by bags under his eyes. 

"Tell Ravi to come over. I’ll fire up the grill," he boldly declares.

"Eames, no," Arthur says immediately. "Your back…"

Eames waves him off and swings his feet off the couch. He then takes a deep breath and stands up slowly. Luckily, his legs don’t immediately give out, resulting in something embarrassing happening like a full-grown alpha crashing to the floor. When he’s standing upright in the middle of the living room, he smiles victoriously at Arthur, who glares a little, but can’t help but smirk. “I’m fine, see? All I have to do is stand at the bloody grill. I think I can manage.”

Max, the professional worrier, frowns at him. “You’re sure? I don’t want to be a bother.”

"I beg your pardon," Eames declares, in full theatrical mode now, and Arthur knows it because he’s rolling his eyes again and walking to the kitchen to prepare some meat and veggies for the barbecue. "My youngest son is never a bother. Nor are my sweet grandkids and my strapping son-in-law."

Max grins at him. “Oh my God,” he says, like he used to whenever Eames did something embarrassing, but he’s laughing, and that makes a bright smile break out across Eames’ face.


	39. Ravi courts Max (Ravi's POV)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravi courts Max (a drabble from Ravi's POV)

Ravi has been studying at MIT a few years, and he’s more or less been on his own longer than that. His parents, while loving and nurturing, are thousands of miles away, and he’s lucky to see them once or twice a year. But this is all part of a plan he constructed for himself years ago, when he still lived with his parents in India—to attend school in the states, get an advanced degree, and a secure job.

Whenever he chats with his mother on the phone, she drops little hints that there are other things to life besides his education and employment. Say, a mate and children. During those times, Ravi calmly answers that he knows that—that he isn’t  _wilfully_ ignoring potential mates, but rather he’s too busy to think about something like that right now.

Except, that isn’t entirely true. 

There are omegas, lots of omegas, who attend MIT and live in Boston, and Ravi crosses paths with them every day. And he, one poor, unsuspecting alpha against the whole world, sees the sway of their hips and smells them, but politely bows his head when passing, or quickly looks away when they smile at him in the street. Ravi isn’t one of these alphas who go to clubs, or bars, and he certainly doesn’t have time to use online dating websites.

Instead, he focuses on his studies, which pays off in the end. He secures a coveted internship at one of MIT’s labs, but when he calls his parents to announce the good news, they counter with a surprising statement.

"Your Uncle Yusuf is coming to speak to you about something important," his mother says, all the normal melodic lilt vanished from her voice. She sounds very serious. Maybe a little nervous.

Ravi blinks and frowns. He hasn’t seen his uncle in years. “Why? What’s wrong?”

"Nothing is wrong, priya."

"I wish you would just tell me. I always imagine the worst case scenario," he sighs.

"Such a worrier. Tell me about this lab you’re so excited about," she says, masterfully diverting his attention away from the real issue—why in the world his uncle is visiting  him.

***

Yusuf looks exactly as Ravi remembers him, except perhaps a bit thicker around the middle. He laughs and ensnares his nephew in a tight embrace the second he sees him. “Look at you!” he crows. “My God, has it been that long? Of course it has. I’m a fossil. Let’s go upstairs and have a drink. You have whisky, don’t you? Of course you do. Good lad.”

Ravi escorts his uncle up to his humble second floor apartment and pours him a coffee mug full of the cheap whisky he’s been keeping in his pantry “for a special occasion” that never managed to arrive. “How’s the medical equipment business?” he asks politely, handing his uncle the mug before taking a seat on the couch beside him.

"Hm? Oh, bloody dull. Let’s not talk about that rubbish," Yusuf replies, voice muffled as he tips back the mug and takes a swig of whisky. "I’m here for a much more important reason," he continues, leaning back to stuff his fingers into the pocket of his trousers. When his hand emerges again, he’s clutching a wrinkled photo that he tosses onto the cushion between them. 

"What’s this?" Ravi asks curiously, plucking the photo off the upholstery to examine it. It’s a picture of a young man: nice-looking—very nice, actually. When Ravi peers closer, he sees the youth has dark, wavy hair, wide doe eyes, and dimples. When Ravi looks back to his uncle, Yusuf is looking back at him, grinning expectantly. 

"That is the son of friends of mine. His name is Max and he’s an omega. Nice, yeah?"

Ravi’s face warms when he hands the photo back to his uncle. “Um, I suppose. What is this about?”

There’s a pause when Yusuf drains the mug of the remaining whisky and leans forward to set it down on the coffee table. He then pockets the photo and turns to face his nephew. “He’s unmated and your parents what me to arrange a courtship between you two.”

All the air drains out of his lungs, and for several moments, Ravi’s response is total silence. He stares in surprise at his uncle, but eventually pulls himself together to blink owlishly and stammer: “I…what?” Ravi mentally reviews the itinerary he’s carefully constructed for himself. He examines the itemised list: internship, lab work, job, but no where does he remember writing down  _secure mate_. He’s still a young alpha. There’s plenty of time to worry about that stuff later. “I’m too busy right now,” he finally manages to sputter.

Yusuf doesn’t look impressed by that response. “Listen, mate. Don’t wait too long. Max is a good prospect. He’s young, fertile, and you’d be first in line because I hear the other dates haven’t gone swimmingly.” 

"Why haven’t they gone well?" he asks, frowning. He wonders what he’s done to his mother to anger her enough to pull this stunt. One moment they were having a pleasant conversation about his new lab job, and the next she sent off her assassin brother to ambush Ravi. Of course, a part of him always knew his mother would arrange a courtship for him, since that’s the standard custom, but he still feels unprepared for all of this.

Yusuf shrugs. “If I had to guess, maybe the other alphas weren’t bright. Max is very sharp. He’s into science, like you. Won a bunch of awards for designing some kind of plastic-eating microbe. I have a…just a second…” he murmurs, groping inside his other pocket. Yusuf pulls out a folded sheet of paper and hands it to him. When Ravi unfolds it, he sees it’s a print out of an article about high school science fair winner Max Eames, who attracted national attention for his discovery.

There’s a black and white photo in the article of Max standing beside his invention. He’s wearing wire-rimmed glasses and looks miserable to be having his photo taken, which makes Ravi smile faintly. He adjusts his glasses so he can read the fine print, and hums thoughtfully.  _Impressive_. He’s distracted from the article when Yusuf waves his now empty mug in front of him. “Refill for your poor, old uncle?” he implores.

Smirking, Ravi takes the mug and goes to pour him more whisky. “Who are Max’s parents?” he asks upon returning to the couch.

Yusuf accepts the mug from him and leans back against the couch. “A mate of mine. Eames. We grew up together in Africa,” Yusuf says, pausing only to sip his beverage. “I met Arthur when they started dating. They’re good blokes. Fine stock. You’ll make beautiful babies together.”

His face burns in embarrassment again, but Ravi tries to hide the fact by lowering his chin and pretending to read the article. It’s strange to discuss this deeply personal aspect of his life with his uncle, who he hasn’t seen since he was a little boy. “I just don’t think we need to rush anything,” he murmurs weakly, because it’s painfully clear at this point that he has absolutely no control over the situation anymore. Yes, he’ll have the final say in whether he continues to see Max or not, but until then, Ravi really doesn’t have a choice in who he sees in the initial phase of the courtship process.

The weight of his uncle’s hand on his shoulder surprises him, but when he looks up sharply, Ravi realizes Yusuf means the gesture to be comforting. His uncle offers him that weary, worldly look older people so often level at youth. It means Ravi is doing something naive or idealistic, and so a more experienced person must step in to sweep his legs out from under him, just in case he’s forgotten how unfair life can be.  

"You don’t want to end up alone, Ravi. Don’t dawdle on this one. Max is a fine omega. You’d be lucky to have him as a mate," he says before polishing off his whisky and setting the mug on the table again. "I’ve seen lots of alphas say they’ll wait, there’s plenty of time, and then they realise everyone’s paired off when they weren’t looking."

"What about you?" Ravi asks, calming a bit as he writes a new list in his head—one that includesMax. The article said the omega attends school in California. Ravi creates a checklist: buy an airline ticket, pack a bag, book a hotel room, inform MIT he’s taking a few days to participate in a courtship.

Yusuf frowns at his nephew as if he’s just asked a terribly silly question. “What about me?”

"Well, I mean…you’re alone, aren’t you?"

Ravi feels silly when his uncle bursts out laughing. “I’m a bloody beta. It’s a different set of rules for us, mate,” he says, standing up suddenly. “Listen, when you meet Eames, he’s the alpha, look him straight in the eyes and shake his hand. Tell Arthur, the omega, he has a lovely home. Don’t ever lie to them. They’ll see through you in a second.”

He stands up quickly as well, and suddenly feels an unexpected spike of nerves. Ravi wants to cling to his uncle like a life raft. “What about Max?”

"What  _about_  Max?” Yusuf echoes, patting his suit jacket, checking for something. Maybe cigarettes. 

"What do I say to him?"

Yusuf pulls his pack of cigarettes from the interior pocket of his jacket and looks up at his nephew. “You’re the bloody alpha. Just…be the alpha,” he says vaguely, but when Ravi gazes back at him earnestly, Yusuf sighs and grips his shoulder. “Ask questions and listen to him. Be good to this family, mate. They mean a lot to me.” Yusuf pauses, but only to pinch one of the filters with his teeth to draw out the cigarette. Then he looks back at Ravi and mutters around the filter: “Also, I don’t want Arthur to hunt down and kill me.”

***

The Eameses live in a sweet, unassuming house in a Californian suburb where all the lawns are perfectly manicured. Ravi parks by the curb and spends a few minutes loitering in his rental car, nervously eyeing the front door. He double, then triple, checks that he has the correct address (he does), then switches off the engine and remains seated, drumming on the wheel, cursing his place in the universe.

He remembers his uncle’s words: he’s an alpha. This is what alphas do. Ravi squares his shoulders and climbs out of the vehicle. He brushes off the front of his slacks and suit jacket, shuts the door, the car alarm chirping happily behind him when he locks it. He focuses on taking deep, calming breaths as he proceeds up the walkway, and then stands on the porch.  _This is what alphas do_ , he repeats silently when he knocks on the front door.

Every zen atom flees his body when another alpha, Eames, opens the door. Ravi remembers his uncle’s advice, and looks the man right in the eyes, but even though he has a few inches on him, Ravi feels like a child standing on the porch. Judging from the width of the man’s shoulders, Eames could snap his spine in half if so desired. “Hello, Mr. Eames,” he says, figuring an absurd level of formality is the safest way to proceed.

Fortunately, the other alpha smiles brightly. “Ravi! Glad you made it. Come in, come in,” he says, shaking Ravi’s hand when he extends it, and uses it to pull him inside. “Arthur! Ravi is here,” he says, seconds before a dark-haired omega, the spitting image of Max, emerges from the living room. Upon closer inspection, Ravi sees there are fine lines around the omega’s eyes and mouth, but other than those telltale signs of age, Max appears to be an exact replica of his father. 

When Arthur smiles at him, the tightness in Ravi’s chest diminishes slightly. “So glad you could make it,” the omega says, foregoing the handshake to hug Ravi instead. “Nice suit,” Arthur adds approvingly once they’ve separated.

"Thank you," Ravi murmurs, flashing a smile, still unspeakably nervous once he thinks about what comes next. 

He’s going to meet Max, for the first time ever.

"Did Yusuf explain the situation?" Eames asks as they walk into the living room. When Ravi shakes his head and murmurs  _no, sir_ , Eames sighs deeply. “We’ve had rubbish luck with the alphas we selected so far,” he says, glancing over to Arthur for confirmation.

Arthur frowns before answering. “They’ve been…”

"Bloody rude, to be honest," Eames concludes, and then points in a not completely unthreatening fashion at Ravi. "You treat my boy with respect, you understand?"

"Yes, sir. Of course," Ravi answers immediately, not just because he’s afraid of Eames (though that’s true), but because he doesn’t understand what kind of self-respecting alpha could be rude to an omega, even if there clearly wasn’t a mate match. 

"Okay, okay…Don’t scare him," Arthur chastises playfully, then smiles sweetly when he squeezes Ravi’s arm. "He’s a little shy, and freaked out by this whole process, so just…be patient."

Ravi nods seriously. He understands being freaked out by the courting process because he’s currently terrified himself. Ravi also understands shy. He’s a total science geek, who is more at home among his test tubes and Bunsen burners than social mixers or college bar culture. Of course, Ravi has been told he’s handsome, so he supposes it must be true, but he still feels like the scrawny, gangly kid from India other alphas picked on during recess. He’d flatten any alpha who challenged him these days (well, perhaps not Eames), but the point is he’d prefer to avoid conflict if at all possible. He’s not the kind of alpha who carries himself with bravado, and he doesn’t have confidence to spare, particularly when it comes to wooing omegas.

Actually, Ravi doesn’t know the first thing about wooing.

Arthur and Eames leave him alone in the living room briefly, so he takes a seat on the couch and patiently waits. He can hear them speaking to someone, probably Max, in the adjacent room. Ravi fidgets, fixing his cuffs, straightening his tie, and nearly shoots off the couch when Max enters the room unescorted thirty seconds later. 

His immediate impression is that he was a fool for thinking Max is a carbon copy of Arthur.

Upon closer inspection, yes, the younger omega looks very much like his father, but there are different qualities too. His hair is longer, and falls in soft waves around his face, and Ravi watches as he quickly tucks one of the curls behind his ear before extending his hand. “Hi, I’m Max,” he says softly and shyly, as promised. There’s a reserved, pure quality to him that Arthur doesn’t emit. 

"Hello," he replies, gently cradling Max’s hand before releasing it.

When they sit down and begin conversing, Ravi’s first thought is that those other alphas must have been conversational amateurs because he finds Max extremely easy to talk to. But then he realizes that might be because they speak the same language of science. Max seems genuinely amazed that Ravi bothered to learn anything about his scientific background, which annoys Ravi on Max’s behalf. Of course he learned about his potential mate’s interests. What kind of alpha wouldn’t do the bare minimum research?

The hour flies by, and Ravi is quite impressed by Max’s ability to keep up when they begin discussing advanced chemistry. Yes, he’s sixteen, and as such still possesses all of the awkward ticks of youth (difficulty maintaining eye contact, constant fidgeting), but when he calms down, Max begins to look at Ravi’s face, and even relaxes enough to smile and laugh.

Ravi quickly decides Max is lovely.

He knows he must be visibly disappointed when Arthur appears in the living room again to tell them their time is up.

"Oh…Right, of course," Ravi says, looking again at Max, who also looks saddened that their time is over. "Um, it was really lovely meeting you, Max."

They’re standing in front of each other, and though he’s aware of Arthur and Eames’ presence at his back, when Max looks at him, it feels very intimate. This close, Ravi can see in detail Max’s Cupid’s bow mouth, and his pale skin, which flushes a soft shade of pink when he realizes everyone is looking at him, awaiting his response.

"Uh, yeah. Me too—It was nice meeting you too, I mean."

***

After that, Ravi has to go back to his hotel room and wait to hear from Arthur and Eames. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, wondering if the Eameses are the type to play mind games, when his cell phone suddenly vibrates across the comforter. Ravi leaps for his phone, flips it open and stammers: “Hello? Yes, hi?”

"Ravi? Hi, it’s Arthur. Listen, Max would really like to see you again. Are you open to a second date?"

A wide smile breaks across his face. “Yes, I’d love to. Of course.”

In that moment, Ravi knows he would have been devastated had Max not wanted to see him again. As Arthur rattles off the details about their next meeting (time, date, location), Ravi idly wonders if it’s too soon to declare that Max is his mate, and he wants to know when that definitive moment occurs. When he smells Max to make sure they’re scent compatible? When they go on private dates? When they kiss?

Max already feels like his, but he knows that’s mad. If he tells anyone that, they’ll think he’s being an irrational alpha, and he certainly doesn’t want to share that news with the Eameses and scare off little Max.

Ravi keeps his heart locked up in a wooden box deep inside his chest and calmly waits until he can see Max again. On their second date, he learns Max is funny, and possesses a rather dry, dark sense of humor that he enjoys thoroughly. He also discovers Max is afraid of a lot of things: namely, the outside world, and being separated from his parents, both of which will be necessary when (and it’s now  _when_ , in Ravi’s mind) they are married. But Max possesses a curious mind, and confesses he would like to see a place outside of California, and maybe attend school one day.

He files away all this information in the ultra-important area of his mind marked _Max_.

They’re allowed to sit together alone because it’s the second date, and feeling emboldened by all the progress they’ve made, Ravi asks to smell Max at the end of their meeting.

He enjoys the reaction of Max, who acquiesces, but only after clearly, silently weighing the appropriateness of such a request. The omega is a sheltered, reserved creature. It’s refreshing, actually, and it reminds Ravi a little bit of life back in India. Not that he misses his old life, but there’s a pureness to Max that Ravi finds he wants to cherish and protect.

Ravi carefully cradles Max’s wrist when he brings it upwards to his face and gently presses his nose to the pulse. When he breathes deeply, Max trembles, and Ravi can practically feel his heartbeat speed up. Max smells wonderful—slightly floral, with an undercurrent of sweetness. He’s never smelled anything like it, and he has to restrain himself from leaning forward to nuzzle at the curve of Max’s neck to smell more of him.

That, he reminds himself, would be terribly inappropriate.

He tells Max he’s lovely—meaning not just his smell, but everything. He’s beautiful, and brilliant, and Ravi wants him. But he doesn’t say that last part. Instead, he looks at the omega with dilated pupils and softly says: “Lovely.”

Max’s ears turn crimson, but he smiles, and that’s how Arthur and Eames find them when they emerge to say time is up.

***

He has to go back to school eventually, but Arthur and Eames give him permission to write Max. He’s never written a love letter before, and he’s not exactly sure where to start, but then he decides simply to be honest because Max is not the kind of person to ever mock someone for their vulnerability. 

_I think about you all the time. I dream about you._

Ravi decides that he’s always going to be honest with Max—that he doesn’t need to keep his heart locked away because it actually belongs to Max. Instead, he’s going to entrust it with his mate.

 _I miss you, priya_.

Max sends updates of his life, peppered with quiet confessions of his own. He tells Ravi that he wants to see Boston with him, and that he’s considering filling out some college applications, including MIT, to see if he can get in. Ravi encourages him because he fully believes Max would flourish at MIT, and of course he greedily wants to have the omega all to himself. He formulates a plan, and because he knows Max also has an orderly mind, lays out a clear plan in bullet points. Max will get accepted at MIT, then Ravi will rent a U-Haul and move Max east to their apartment, where they can live together in privacy.

Ravi wonders if he’s a terrible man for harboring less than pure desires for Max, who is the embodiment of sweet, naive trust, but then he thinks back to the blush of the omega’s cheeks, and the hammering of his heart. No, Max desires Ravi as much as the alpha wants him, though he doesn’t have the tools to express that longing just yet.   

There’s really no one he can talk to about his moral quandary. Ravi doesn’t have time for friends at MIT, and he’d be too mortified to discuss this issue with his parents, so he ends up calling his uncle.

"I hear the courting process is going well," Yusuf declares around a mouthful of something. It sounds like he’s in the middle of dinner, most likely in a public place because Ravi can hear the murmur of a crowd in the distance.

"It is. Max is wonderful, but…I wanted to ask you something…of a delicate nature," he sputters before laying out the conundrum—the desire to have Max for his own, but also the impulse to protect him and not take advantage of his vulnerable state. Ravi is just launching into the role of alphas in society, and the duty to protect omegas, when Yusuf cuts him off.

"For God’s sake, boy. It’s normal to want to go to bed with your mate. Get off the cross and go shag that poor lad."

Mortified, Ravi covers his face with his hand. His uncle always did have a way with words. He flashes back to an early memory when his parents took Yusuf out to lunch, and he got so drunk and rowdy that his father had to pay off the restaurant staff just to keep them from calling the police. “Uncle, we have to get married first.”

"Hm? Oh, right. Well…after the wedding then, shag his brains out."

"Thanks for the advice," Ravi says wryly, chuckling.

There’s a lengthy pause, and Ravi is just beginning to wonder how much alcohol Yusuf has consumed during dinner, when his uncle suddenly speaks again: “Listen, you’re a good boy. Stop over-thinking everything. Isn’t it possible you love Max, and Max loves you, and there’s going to be a happy ending?”

After Ravi hangs up, he sits on the couch for a long time and considers his uncle’s words. He decides it is possible that Max desires all of the same things as Ravi, and rather than taking advantage of an unsuspecting omega, they could explore and figure everything out together. He mulls over terms like  _husband_ and  _mate_ , and pulls out all of Max’s letters to read them again. Ravi isn’t allowed to call Max on the phone, so he tries to remember the sound of the omega’s voice and his laugh.

When everything is tallied up in his mind, Ravi leans back against the couch and smiles to himself. 

Yes, Max is his mate. One way or another, they’ll live together soon, and Ravi is going to marry him.

There will be a happy ending after all.


	40. Arthur offers parenting advice to Max

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur offers some helpful parenting advice to Max

The twins are now mobile and quite the speedy crawlers. Max can’t even turn away from them for a second, or Charles tries to worm his way under the couch, or Aady grabs the edge of the TV stand, and Max has to rush over to pry her hands off because he’s afraid she’ll topple over the whole thing (Ravi hasn’t had a chance to anchor it to the wall yet). Then he puts them in the middle of the room on their butts, and the whole thing starts over again.

He loves his babies, but they’re exhausting. 

Luckily, Max has his father who regularly comes over to help with the twins. Not for the first time, Max appreciates that Arthur is a wonderful force of nature as he watches his father masterfully handle the babies, all while wearing a stylish pair of slacks — that somehow never wrinkle — a crisp white undershirt, and a gorgeous wine-coloured vest. It makes sense that his father seems to have no trouble navigating babysitting two children. After all, Arthur had to deal with three babies, each a year apart in age, and Max can’t remember his father ever having a hair out of place, let alone wearing pants with an elastic waistband.

Max hasn’t showered in days, and he’s been living in a pair of sweatpants and a white t-shirt that is far too large on him. Come to think of it, the shirt might belong to Ravi. He plucks at the fabric and sniffs it. When he looks up, Arthur is disapprovingly squinting at him.

"Go shower and change into fresh clothes," he instructs.

Max eyes the perfect lines of his starched collar. “Are you a witch?” he whispers.

Arthur smirks. “Yeah, I’m a witch. Go shower, baby.”

***

After bathing, Max changes into a pair of slacks and a blue sweater he thinks his father won’t entirely hate. When he walks back into the kitchen, Arthur is seated in the middle of the living room with Charles and Aady as they play with their puzzles. 

Max glances at the cable box’s clock beneath the TV and sighs. Ravi won’t be home for hours.

Lately, Max misses his mate terribly anytime he leaves the house, and when Ravi comes home, Max practically scales the poor man the second he walks through the door because he’s so happy to see him. On a logical level, Max knows this is because his body is pumping a crazy amount of hormones into his system, partly because he just had the babies, but also because it’s natures way of strengthening the bond between them. He remembers how horrified he and his siblings used to be by their parents near-constant necking and cuddling, but now Max totally gets it. As if his mate didn’t turn him on enough before, now Max is horny all the time, and if he doesn’t want sex, he wants to be touching Ravi, or holding his hand, or looking at his face.

It’s ridiculous.

Arthur looks up when he hears him sigh. He eyes Max for a second before speaking: “You shouldn’t sit around in the house all day, Max. You need to get out.”

Max gestures to the center of the room where Charles has a large puzzle piece wedged in his mouth. “I can’t leave them.”

Arthur reaches over to pull the wet piece from his grandson’s gums. “That’s what Frank is for. And I don’t mean  _all day_. Just come on a morning jog with me and Pat. We run every morning.”

Ordinarily, Max wouldn’t necessarily feel safe running in little jogging shorts with only two other omegas as his chaperones, but Arthur is no ordinary omega. He’d honestly feel sorry for any alpha who tried to mess with them. Max crosses the room so he can sit down by the twins and Arthur. “Okay,” he agrees. “I’ll run with you guys tomorrow.”

Arthur nods, his eyes gleaming with approval.

***

The babies can’t even walk yet, but they’re already exhibiting some classic alpha traits. For example, Charles hits. A lot. Particularly when Max tries to correct his behavior. He’s at the stage now where any item he finds, Charles put into his mouth because that seems to be how he makes sense of the world. Charles finds a pen, and into his mouth it goes. Charles is holding a ball in his hand, until he’s trying to shove it between his lips. Max always grabs the object right away and pulls it from his grasp. “No, don’t do that, sweet pea,” he says.

Charles gets frustrated and hits him. Not hard, of course. He’s only a baby, and he doesn’t know any better.

That’s what Max always tells himself, anyway. But when Charles does this in front of Arthur, his dad acts like it’s a big deal.

“ _No_ ,” he chastises in his icy, cutting tone that Max still apparently has a pavlovian response to because he tenses up just hearing it. Then Arthur picks up Charles and puts him in the corner of the living room, far away from his toys. “Time out.”

Charles looks at them over his chubby shoulder and blinks owlishly. He’s never been put in a time out before, and Max briefly wonders if he’s even old enough to grasp the concept of it. Arthur and Eames were not physical disciplinarians with him and his siblings, but Max does remember the dreaded time out, even though he never really experienced them. Jack was the one who always ended up in the corner, crying as he and Rose continued to play with their toys.

Right away, he tries to scoot over to one of his toys and pick it up, but Arthur is there to pick him up and put him back in the corner. “No,” he says calmly, “You don’t hit daddy.”

Max frowns when he sees Charles gaze sadly at the toys, where Aady continues to play obliviously. “Dad, it’s not a big deal, really.”

"Yes it is. He has to learn," Arthur says in a tone that indicates this is the end of the conversation.

When Charles earns the privilege to come back and play with the toys, he almost immediately picks up a red block and inserts it into his mouth. Max sighs and carefully peels it away from his mouth, and right on cue, Charles’ little fist strikes his arm.

Arthur is up in a flash. “No,” he says in the same unnervingly dulcet voice. He picks up the baby and sits him in the same corner, then squats beside him and looks right at his face. “You don’t hit daddy.”

This happens three more times in the span of an hour.

Max is just getting to the point where he’s considering telling Arthur not to do it anymore — that it’s not going to work because Charles is too young and he doesn’t understand the consequences of his actions — when something amazing happens. The next time Charles puts a toy in his mouth, and Max corrects him, he sees the moment his son would normally lash out, but then he stops and looks at Arthur. Arthur, who is looking back at him, just waiting to put him in time out jail again.

Then Charles goes back to playing. He doesn’t hit Max.

***

When the twins are having nap time, Arthur brews them some tea. “Babies aren’t dumb,” he says as he steeps the tea bags in the steaming water and then hands Max his cup. Arthur sits down in the free chair beside him at the kitchen table. “They know how to manipulate you already, and they know when they’ve done something wrong.”

Max sighs and cradles the cup between his hands. “He’s just so little.”

Arthur takes a sip and purses his lips, head shaking slowly. “Better he learns this lesson now. Imagine when he’s over six foot. You don’t want him hitting then.”

He nods and gazes down at the amber liquid. Max knows his father is right — that it’s essential Charles learns lessons like  _don’t hit omegas_ as early as possible because one day his children are going to be raging storms of hormones, and then it will be too late to instil those values. “But…” he says, and immediately stops. He doesn’t want to say what’s in his head because it might offend Arthur. However, it’s too late. Arthur is already looking at him in that placid, steady way that means he won’t relent until Max has spilled whatever thought he’s protectively cradling. Max sighs. “I mean, Jack was a terror and you guys did everything right.”

Max feels relieved when Arthur, rather than looking hurt, smirks in response. “Yeah, I know,” he says wearily. Whenever Arthur rolls his shirtsleeves, Max sees the thin, white scar tissue along the underside of his arm, a relic from his worst fight with Jack. “You can only do your best, Max, but you also have me and Eames, and Ravi, and your brother and sister, not to mention your uncle Dom, the Aldens and Frank. You’re not alone.”

Surprisingly, that statement relaxes Max because he’s never thought about things that way. Arthur and Eames had to figure everything out on their own, but Max won’t have to do that. He has a pool of knowledge to draw from, and a support system ready to rush over and help him when he needs assistance. Not for the first time, he feels incredibly grateful that they moved back to the west coast so he doesn’t have to feel helpless or isolated whenever he has a problem with the babies.

Cradling his forehead in his hands, Max sighs loudly. “Raising two babies is hard,” he mutters. 

When he looks up, Arthur is grinning. “Try raising three,” he says, and then winks.

***

Poor Ravi doesn’t even get to put down his messenger bag, or remove his coat because Max is currently trying to climb him. His father left hours ago, and since then, he’s been getting dinner ready, but mainly looking out the window whenever a pair of headlights from a passing car shines against the front of the house. Now, Ravi is home, and when Max leans against him, his scent billows up from beneath the layers of his sweater and jacket, and he inhales it greedily. He looks wonderfully rumpled, and he’s wearing his wire-rimmed glasses, and Max wants to undress and have Ravi chase him into the bedroom.

"Priya…priya.." Ravi laughs as Max kisses him and tries to touch his face, but he’s not really fighting it, and Max can feel he’s smiling while he accosts his lips. "Where are the little ones?"

"Sleeping," Max gasps, already brainstorming if the kitchen table is strong enough to hold his weight, having made the executive decision that dinner can wait for a quickie with his mate.

But right on cue, the sounds of Aady squealing resonate from the nursery. By now, she’s woken from her nap and hears the voice of beloved father, which means she needs to see Ravi’s face in the next thirty seconds, or she’s going to have a nuclear meltdown. Max may actually whimper, which he’s not proud of, but then Ravi smoothes the fringe from his brow and kisses his forehead. “It’s okay. I’ll take care of you tonight, priya. I promise,” Ravi says, and in Max’s opinion, it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever heard. He can’t actually articulate a response, so he just stares at his mate’s handsome face, and nods dumbly. 

Then Ravi kisses his forehead and moves past him. Max knows the second Aady sees him because she screeches happily, and he forgets to be moody and sexually frustrated when he joins his family in the nursery to watch the little alphas joyously freak out at the return of their father.

"Hello, my little beans," Ravi says, leaning over their bassinets, which are attached, but with a padded wall extending between the babies so they don’t roll over in their sleep and crush each other. Max smiles, leaning against the doorframe as he watches. From this angle, he can see the shadow of Aady’s small feet against the side of the bassinet, kicking excitedly the second she sees Ravi. "Are you happy to see me?" he asks, unnecessarily because now Charles is also making gleeful, gurgling sounds. 

***

Max tells Ravi about the time out revelation over dinner, after he’s fed the babies, and they’re digesting in their playpen in the living room. He’s briefly concerned that his mate will be annoyed or angry that his father has overstepped his role as grandfather, but instead Ravi looks impressed.

"And it worked?" he asks, shovelling some more of the casserole onto his plate. Max picks up the bowl of pasta salad and spoons more of that onto his mate’s plate as well. Next to Eames, Ravi has the biggest appetite he’s ever seen in an alpha — worse than even Jack, who is the reason Max still cradles his plate protectively whenever he eats.

Glancing to the playpen, Max nods. “Yeah, he didn’t hit me the next time I disciplined him.”

Ravi nods, chewing on a mouthful of salad. He looks thoughtful for a long time before speaking. “My mother used to tell me this story when I was a little boy about a fierce omega warrior named Surya, who all the people, even the alphas, feared.” He shakes his head, smirking a bit. “I never believed it was real until I met Arthur.”

Max grins slowly.

He knows exactly what Ravi means.


	41. Jack asks Eames for career advice, Eames runs into an old friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack asks Eames for some career advice, and Eames runs into an old friend

Jack picks up a can of beans from the shelf and tosses it in the cart. 

 

"No, not that kind," Eames says, squinting at the crumpled piece of paper in his hand. "Arthur likes Navy beans, not kidney," he explains, plucking the can from the top of the heap to return it. 

 

"Oh, okay," he answers noncommittally, foot propped against the bottom rung of the cart, slumped over the handle dejectedly. 

 

Eames eyes him curiously. "You all right?" he asks as they slowly make their way down the grocery aisle, Eames occasionally pausing to drop another food item into the cart. Jack hasn't heard of half the stuff his dads claim to be essential purchases, but then again, he's not exactly gifted in the culinary arts. Arthur is off purchasing slabs of meat that Eames will no doubt later turn into a gorgeous gourmet meal.

 

Jack exhales loudly. "It's just work stuff," he answers vaguely. Eames doesn't answer him, but Jack can feel his father's gaze lingering, waiting him out. Finally, he glances at Eames and clarifies: "Just having trouble with a work colleague."

 

Eames hums, picking up a bag of flour and dropping it into the cart. "What kind of trouble?"

 

He reflexively rolls his eyes thinking about the work he usually loves, and under normal circumstances excels at. "We have a new client. An heiress. Anyway, she has this… _assistant_ who's involved in everything, and Uncle Dom keeps kissing her ass, and telling her she shits rainbows—"

 

Eames snorts in laughter. "And I take it she doesn't approve of your forges?"

 

Jack smirks. "Uh, no. She does not. This woman must have Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, or something. She nitpicks every little goddamn detail—"

 

"Maybe she's just thorough," Eames suggests, brows quirked in a challenging way that makes Jack's face instantly warm.

 

"She's micro-managing," he hisses, insulted that his dad thinks he's being _lazy_. Jack takes his work very seriously. "I know what I'm doing. The forges are perfect. Uncle Dom just wants the heiress's money. He's involved this woman in _everything_ we're doing. He's even calling her his point woman. It's fucking ridiculous."

 

His father chuckles. "What's her name?"

 

Jack rolls his eyes. "Selena. And what's worse, she's _an omega_."

 

Eames looks at him in mock horror. " _No_."

 

"I'm serious," Jack mutters, glaring at his father. This isn't a joking manner. He knows his dad has all kinds of liberated views on omega rights (Jack does too—how could he not after being raised by Arthur?), but there's a limit to these things. It's humiliating to have an omega lecture him daily on his own profession. "She's driving me nuts."

 

A chuckle rumbles in Eames' chest and Jack scowls at him. "Might do you good. You've always had trouble taking orders from omegas," he says, pausing to eye the colourful facades of cereal boxes. 

 

Jack silently seethes because he knows his father is right. He had some spectacular fights with Arthur growing up, but Jack likes to think he's matured since then. It's not like he's going to _brawl_ with an omega, for God's sake. He just can't stop thinking about her. Selena has somehow needled her way into his mind, a painful splinter that constantly makes its presence known.

 

"You just don't know what it's like," he sighs, miserable and despondent. "We bicker constantly, and Uncle Dom clearly favours her, his _precious point woman_ , and she's so _smug_ and _condescending_ ," he grouses. When he looks up, Eames is staring at him, brow slightly furrowed. "What?" Jack asks self-consciously. 

 

Eames blinks slowly. "Nothing." A slow smile breaks across his face as he walks down the aisle.

 

Jack glares at his father's profile. "Seriously, _what_?" he asks as they emerge from aisle five. He never gets an answer because the deli is located directly in front of them, which is where Arthur is dictating a list of requests to the poor butcher, who looks like he's already failed to measure up to Arthur's high standards several times, and he's aware he's walking on thin ice. He's practically sweating through his apron.

 

"Is that as thin as you can make the slices?" he hears Arthur ask.

 

The butcher gestures helplessly at the meat slicer. "It's the lowest setting."

 

Arthur eyes the machine mistrustfully. "It'll have to do, then."

 

"Success?" Eames asks as they sidle up beside Arthur.

 

"For the most part," Arthur answers, but he flashes a smile at them, which means even though he's about to buy subpar meat slices, he's generally happy with this particular outing. Jack hears the butcher sigh in relief. 

 

"Brilliant. I thought I'd get back here and you'd have poor Sam strung up by his toes," Eames chuckles, winking at the butcher, who smirks in return. 

 

Jack inhales, and over the scent of meat and fish, he detects alpha pheromones. He bows his head, grinning. Add Sam the butcher to the seemingly infinite list of alphas who fear Arthur.

 

Arthur grins slowly. "You didn't give me enough time," he says, looking up at Sam, who immediately drops the smirk and bows his head to focus on slicing the ham as thin as possible.

 

"Oh my God. _Henry_?" 

 

When Jack looks over his shoulder, there's a slight blond omega standing there, basket of groceries cradled in the crook of his elbow. He's smiling brightly and looking right at Eames.

 

None of them speak for several moments, but Jack and Arthur stare at Eames, who looks like he's just had the wind knocked from his lungs. Jack mouths _Henry_? at his father, who at least remembers enough about being a conman that he doesn't flinch. Finally, he recovers and flashes the stranger a bright smile. "Jacob. Bloody hell. It's been years. How are you?"

 

There's an awkward pause when the stranger, Jacob, glances from Eames to Arthur, and then Jack, clearly waiting for an introduction that never comes. Jacob looks like he's not quite sure what the etiquette is—if he should hug Eames in greeting, or if that would be a grave miscalculation, judging by the icy look resonating from Arthur. "I know, right?" he asks nervously, still smiling. "Um…hi, I'm Jacob," he says finally, waving timidly at the group.

 

"Sorry," Eames sputters. "Uh, this is my mate, Arthur, and my son, Jack."

 

"Jacob," Arthur repeats. "That's a nice name. How do you know Henry?"

 

Jack silently watches, and he actually feels a little sorry for Jacob, who is only one little omega facing the terrifying questioning of Arthur. 

 

"We're old friends," Eames answers for him, flashing a warning look Arthur's way that Jack has seen before. It's the look that means _courts send omegas to jail for assault all the time._

 

"Yeah," Jacob answers supportively right away, still smiling like he thinks pleasantness will be his life raft out of this tense situation. "Really old friends."

 

"Where did you meet?" Arthur asks, also smiling, but in a very different way. Arthur's smile actually makes Jack want to curl up and hide until all of this is over. When he looks up, he sees Sam has stopped slicing the ham and is also watching the conversation. He briefly locks eyes with Jack, and in his gaze, he sees all of his trepidation and nervousness reflected back.

 

" _Arthur_ ," Eames says, another warning.

 

"Oh, I used to dance," Jacob blurts out, and Jack wants to grab him by his shoulders and shake him, screaming, _Stop talking! Stop talking, run, and save yourself, you fool!_

 

" _Ballet_ ," Eames sputters, a desperate sailor clogging the side of a broken ship with chewing gum.

 

Arthur, the raging sea, smiles sweetly. "How wonderful. What company were you with?"

 

Poor little Jacob smiles nervously. "Um…"

 

"Should we get going? You need a while to cook dinner, right?" Jack interjects because he loves his father, and watching this play out is agonising. Eames looks like he wants to embrace him and kiss his first-born's face in thanks.

 

"Nonsense. We have all the time in the world," Arthur purrs, gaze never straying from his target.

 

Jacob shifts, swallowing thickly. He glances down to his basket, and when he looks up, Arthur is still watching him calmly, like an entomologist observing a pinned insect. "I didn't dance ballet," he confesses softly.

 

"No," Arthur confirms. "I thought not."

 

***

 

Ten terrible minutes later, Arthur finally releases Jacob, and they pay for their groceries. The long walk back to the car is silent, save for the squeaking wheels of the grocery cart, and the car alarm chirping when Eames unlocks it. Finally, Arthur looks at him and hisses: " _Ballet_ , my ass. How stupid do you think I am?"

 

Eames winces. "Darling—"

 

"Which strip club? _Glitter_ , in Vegas? That was always one of your favourites," he growls, storming over to the passenger side of the car, and slamming the door behind him. 

 

Eames sighs and tilts his head back, looking up at the sky as if praying for divine intervention. Jack watches him for a few moments and then cautiously (and sympathetically) claps his father on a broad shoulder. "You lived a long, rich life," he says.

 

When Eames looks at him, he smirks and reaches into his pocket to find the keys and pop open the trunk. "Don't let Arthur read the eulogy at my funeral."

 

"I won't," Jack says as they pile the brown paper bags into the boot.

 

"I can hear you, you idiots," Arthur barks from the front of the car.

 

***

 

The drive back home provides Arthur with all the time he needs to lecture Eames.

 

"I can't believe you. When did you meet him?"

 

"Darling, it was a lifetime ago."

 

"I'll bet. How long did you see him?"

 

"I don't know. Three months?"

 

" _Classy_ , Eames. A _stripper_?"

 

"……"

 

Jack remains silent. He doesn't want to get sucked into the vortex of Arthur's wrath, but also he doesn't particularly want to ruminate on his father's previous love life. He doesn't really understand how Arthur can be jealous of someone like Jacob, an omega Eames dated ages ago, and who his father clearly hasn't even thought about since they last saw each other. But then again, Jack doesn't know what it's like to have a mate.

 

"I never thought of him until today. How could I, after meeting you?" Eames asks, which seems to calm down Arthur a little bit because he's quiet for a while afterwards. "You can't seriously be jealous," Eames adds eventually. "No one is in the same league as you."

 

"It's just…classless," Arthur mumbles. "You running around Vegas, drinking too much, doing _God knows_ what else…."

 

"Arthur, darling, we've been married _decades_. Do you really think I'm still that man?"

 

Arthur is quiet for a long time again, gazing sullenly out the window before he mutters: "How would you feel if we ran into an old alpha boyfriend of mine?"

 

"Well, I'd rip his throat out," Eames responds breezily, like the answer should be obvious, "But that's not going to happen because you're good, and I was a louse. We've established that. But I'm not that man anymore."

 

Jack gazes down at his hands, thinking about his own sordid past in college, and post-college, with his slew of omega lovers. He always thought he was just having a good time, but seeing his father cope with decisions made decades ago, Jack begins to wonder if his actions have larger consequences than he previously thought. 

 

"Arthur, you're perfect. It's mad you feel threatened, darling."

 

Jack nods silently in agreement. Arthur is a perfect omega. Yes, he's stubborn and fastidious, but that's because he's independent and strong-willed, both good qualities. Jack finds passive omegas so boring because there's no challenge. 

 

"I'm not _threatened_. I'm embarrassed that my husband waved his dick all over Vegas."

 

Jack smirks, pressing his lips together in an attempt not to explode in laughter.

 

"It wasn't _all_ over Vegas. Mostly just the strip area," Eames chuckles.

 

Arthur punches him hard in the bicep, and Eames pretends it hurts much more than it actually does, but he's smirking, and after that, the harsh exchange segues into a discussion about dinner, and if they should buy a movie to watch. As always, Jack is amazed the fight ends so quickly, but that's how it is between his parents. They've known each other for a very long time, and they're still madly in love. 

 

He supposes when mates like each other so immensely, fighting is a nagging inconvenience both parties want to move past quickly so they can go back to being in love.

 

As they pull up in the driveway, Jack finds himself thinking of Selena again.

 

He doesn't know why.


	42. Jack and Selena (part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selena — part 1

Jack and Rose have been working with Uncle Dom for about a year, and for the most part, things are going well. Dom is impressed by Jack's forges and he calls Rose a "natural architect," so he assumes his career in dreamshare is going to be a cakewalk right up until Hildy van Dijk, heiress to the van Dijk empire, contacts Dom and requests his services.

 

"Who is she?" Jack asks after hearing the news, reclined slightly in his chair, staring in an unimpressed fashion at the closed manilla folder on his desk. He never reads Dom's background profiles—not out of disrespect, of course, but he learns easier if someone simply _tells_ him these things. From the corner of his eye, he can see Rose slumped over the file, combing carefully through the twenty, or so, pages detailing van Dijk's background.

 

"One of the wealthiest women in the world," she interjects. "Her father, Boris van Dijk, invented those little erasers you put on the tips of pencils."

 

Jack swivels in his chair and stares at her. "Do people still use those things?" He reaches up to pull at the knot of his tie, loosening it because he's still not used to the constraints of a suit, but Dom insists on formal attire even if they're just sitting around all day, reading paperwork.

 

The sound of Dom clearing his throat catches Jack's attention. "Yes, people still use them," his uncle says, cradling a styrofoam cup of coffee as he leans against an empty desk. Upon reflection, it should have occurred to Jack that Dom set up a third workspace _for a reason_ , but it didn't, and he's frustrated with himself when he's caught short during  Dom's next announcement: "Recently, Mr. van Dijk's wife died, and his daughter wants us to recreate some memories of their marriage for him. She's also a bit paranoid, so she's sending a representative from her estate to oversee our operation."

 

Rose chin snaps up. "Wait, _what_? Like, to babysit us?"

 

Dom appears to be prepared for a backlash because he's already holding up his hand in a calming gesture. "I know, it's…an unorthodox request, but I've taken along tourists on jobs before."

 

"Yeah?" Jack asks. "And how'd that work out?"

 

The frigid stare Dom levels on him is enough to silence Jack for the rest of the meeting. "This is what's happening. I expect your full cooperation."

 

***

 

Selena Kim shows up wearing a tailored pencil skirt, and what is actually probably a lovely silken blouse, but it's incarcerated beneath the harsh lines of her business jacket, which is secured by a single button at the centre of her slender waist. Her Michael Kors kitten heels click against the linoleum floor, heralding their arrival before Jack even sees her. 

 

But before he hears, or sees Selena Kim, he smells her. She's wearing perfume, something light and floral, but beneath that mask, he smells it—the unmistakeable scent of omega.

 

When he looks up, she's standing at the previously empty workplace, calmly surveying the floor. Her hair is jet black and long, but pinned up at the back of her head in a claw clip. She looks at every corner of the room, then at Rose, who is gazing back at her curiously, and finally Selena looks at Jack.

 

"When do you go under?" she asks, already running the show.

 

***

 

Rose strolls along the empty lane, remaining close at his side. She's eyeing the stone facade of each building critically, even though it's her own work. From behind them, Jack can still hear the _click…click…click_ of Selena's heels on the cobble pavement, and he's reminded of Edgar Allan Poe's _Tell-Tale Heart_ pounding beneath the floorboards. His teeth grind together, and he tries to focus on something else—some other quality of the dream, but he can't.

 

"This is really great work," Selena comments, and when they pause to turn around, she's scribbling on a clipboard. "Very nice attention to detail," she says, flashing a tight-lipped smile at Rose.

 

His sister, or as he'll be referring to her from now on, _Benedict Arnold,_ smiles brightly at the compliment. "Thanks, I've been working really hard."

 

"I can tell," Selena says, still scribbling.

 

Jack rolls his eyes. "So is that it, then? Do we pass the test?"

 

Selena looks up from her board. "I need to see your forge."

 

Jack stares at her. "The forge is fine. You're aware _no one_ has ever asked to see my forge ahead of time, and my work is exemplary, right? I can hand you a stack of clients who  would rave about my work."

 

Hugging the clipboard to her chest, Selena gazes back at him. "I'm going to need to see the forge."

 

" _Jack_ ," Rose says beneath her breath, her tone warning.

 

They've been told by their uncle to cooperate with Selena, and if he disobeys, he's going to be in a heap of trouble.

 

" _Fine_ ," Jack spits, and effortlessly sheds his skin, transforming into Madeline van Dijk, as she appeared in her latter years, with the white locks piled and pinned on her head, string of pearls around her throat, and couture dress suit hugging her matronly figure. Jack waits for the usual exclamation of surprise and awe from Selena, but it never comes. Instead, she eyes him and finally steps forward to gaze critically at him—or rather, at his forge of Madeline.

 

"This needs work," she comments, and scribbles something on her board.

 

Jack's throat violently tightens. "What?" he rasps.

 

"First of all, Madeline's eyes are dark blue, almost violet. I know in some of the photos we supplied you they look lighter, but at this stage in her life, they were much darker. Also, what is this suit made of?" she asks, reaching forward to touch the fabric of the sleeve.

 

Jack pulls back reflexively. " _I don't know_ ," he growls, offended because no one has ever criticized his forges, but also defensive because he doesn't know a lot about women's fashion. It's been something of a weakness in the past, and he's always sort of fudged those details, and no one has ever noticed.

 

But Selena knows.

 

"This suit looks cheap," Selena comments nonchalantly, still writing. Jack wants to rip the pen out of her hand and break it in half, and Rose must sense his spiking anger because she interjects.

 

"We'll work on that," she says, smiling serenely.

 

Jack opens his mouth to say something really snarky or cutting, but never gets his moment of retribution because Dom walks around the corner just then, calling over to them: "How're things going?"

 

***

 

Jack finally has his conniption later in the day when Selena drops a _goddamn itinerary_ on his desk, and announces that she's carved the day up into neat hourly increments, and she actually has the nerve to supply them with _goals_ and _objectives_ they're expected to clear throughout the day lest she "write them up," (she actually says this), and reports back to Hildy that they're failing and no longer worthy of her extremely generous payment.

 

"Do we get gold stars if we do well?" he asks, chin raised, glaring in challenge at the omega.

 

"Jack. Office. Now," Dom declares.

 

 _Shit_.

 

Selena's lips quirk up at the corners, and her meaning is clear: _I'm in charge_.

 

Dom closes the door behind them once they're inside his office. Jack doesn't sit down, but he goes to stand in front of his uncle's desk, squares his shoulders, and awaits his fate. He's fully aware that he's overstepped some boundaries, and also that Dom will not hesitate to fire him even though they have the strong tether of Arthur between them. All Dom would need to say to his father is _he was being unprofessional_ , and Arthur would forgive him instantly because, for his father, being _unprofessional_ is akin to murder or treason. An unforgivable crime.

 

"What's going on with you?" Dom asks, slowly flopping down in his chair. Jack expected him to be pissed off, or angry, but he instead looks exhausted.

 

" _Me_?" Jack replies disbelievingly. "What's going on with _her_? I don't need a babysitter, Dom." He always has to remind himself it's just _Dom_ during working hours—not _uncle._ "My forges are perfect. We've never had complaints from clients. Why are you kissing her ass?"

 

His face feels hot, and he knows he's entered dangerous territory—raising his voice and using profanity when those are two huge violations of Dom's proper decorum requirements—but he can't stop himself. Jack is _furious_ , and weirdly, he's not entirely sure why. Yes, Selena is being demanding, but so have a lot of previous clients with whom they've signed contracts. 

 

The angrier he gets, the calmer his uncle seems to grow. Dom squints thoughtfully at him, performing a silence analysis before he speaks slowly. "Do you know why I like hiring omegas to run point?"

 

Jack gapes at him. He's not in here to have a goddamn philosophical debate. "No clue," he spits.

 

"Because they're calm," Dom answers, enunciating his words carefully, "And they're team players. If I hire a bunch of alphas, we're at each other's throats. That's how it was on more than a few jobs, but your dad, Arthur, he was good at keeping things together and moving."

 

Jack knows his uncle is deliberately manipulating him now. He's heard countless tales from Arthur about Dom's masterfulness at negotiations. He has a legendary ability to sooth people, and to convince them they're making independent decisions when in fact they're simply doing whatever Dom wants them to do. Right now, he's bringing up Arthur to simultaneously bring Jack back to earth, and also to subtly remind him of his shameful behavior.

 

"This is a joke," Jack hisses, unwilling to allow Dom to perform his hypnotism, or the _power of thinking_ , or whatever weird guru shit he's trying to pull off. "She's not a _point woman._ She's a _spy_ ," he scoffs. Jack places his hands on his hips, and looks down as he tries to calm himself. His heart is _pounding_ in his chest, and he wants to break something. He's felt rage like this before, but not in years—not since his really bad fights with Arthur, and the rage confuses and frightens him. He doesn't want to get to the brink, when he blacks out and does terrible things. "I don't want to be an asshole, but it's her or me, Dom. I can't work with her."

 

Those words settle between them, and Dom is quiet for a long time. Jack finds he can't maintain eye contact with his uncle, an elder alpha, and therefore his societal superior. Instead, he eyes the tips of his shoes. Worse, Dom is also calm while Jack is furious, which makes him feel like a wild kid, throwing a fit at bedtime. "If that's what you want," Dom says eventually, and when Jack looks up sharply, his uncle is still cooly looking at him. "I'll just ring Arthur and tell him you stormed in here swearing, and throwing a fit, and quit because an omega was being mean to you."

 

Jack slowly glares at him.

 

When he's back at his desk, he tries to ignore the smug smirk Rose throws his way, but she's not about to let him off the hook. "Everything okay?" she chirps.

 

"Fine," he grumbles, chin bowed as he pretends to read Dom's stupid report. He's vaguely aware of Rose and Selena exchanging a glance, but he absolutely refuses to observe or analyze it.

 

***

 

This goes on for weeks. Every day, Selena is unimpressed by something he does, and only ever offers condescending words of support, like she's consistently amazed whenever he manages to not mess up something, or actually provides valuable input.

 

"I think the setting of the reunion should be Le Meurice, since Rose is working on a Parisian landscape. They had several romantic dinners there. I think that'll be a nice memory for Mr. van Dijk," he says during one of their team meetings.

 

"That's…actually a really good idea," Selena concedes.

 

Jack rolls his eyes. "Gee, thanks for the support Ms. Kim." When he looks back to the board, Dom is standing there, gripping a wet erase marker, eyeing him warily. "What?" Jack asks.

 

Dom blinks slowly. "Um, nothing."

 

***

 

He begins to hate work, and resents Dom and Rose for getting along with Selena, and even seeming to _like_ the awful woman. She never harps on the little errors they make throughout the day, but for some reason she hones in on Jack, the target of her obsessive-compulsive wrath. Jack pushes back by being an absolute terror, sarcastic and dismissive even though he's really trying to be perfect in every way.

 

Nothing works. If he says up, Selena really thinks it's down. East is west. North is south. Black is white.

 

During the weekend, Jack drives over to his parents' house, and tells himself he's not running home to his daddies to be told how wonderful and brilliant and handsome he is.

 

But it will be nice to see some friendly faces.

 

Arthur answers the door and a bright smile instantly breaks out across his face when he sees Jack. "Well, hey!" he says, throwing his arms around Jack's neck to hug him, and when Jack wraps his arms around his dad's waist, he knows visiting home was the right decision. He already feels much better. Inhaling his father's scent, Jack chuckles and lifts him off the front stoop, just to hear Arthur laugh.

 

"Hey," he says, after setting down Arthur, doing his best to radiate a nonchalant vibe, like he's not desperate to see his fathers. "Where's dad?"

 

"Where else? Watching soccer," Arthur chuckles, closing the door behind them once Jack walks inside.

 

Eames is indeed seated on the couch, and he looks over once he hears Jack's voice. "Jacky!" he declares, grinning. "You didn't call. Want to watch the game?"

 

"Yeah, thought I'd drop by," Jack says breezily, walking over to take a seat beside his father, and leaning forward to snatch a handful of nuts from the bowl resting on the coffee table. He pops some into his mouth and chews, glancing around the place. Everything looks exactly the same, and when he breathes in deeply, decades of memories come rushing back to him. It's nice to be here, blanketed in the comforting scents of his fathers.

 

When he's home, Jack knows exactly who he is, and what his place in the universe is.

 

It's the opposite of being with Selena—or, not _with her_ , but in the same room as her—when he isn't sure of anything.

 

Arthur walks up beside him and places a cool hand on Jack's brow. "You okay? You look flushed."

 

"Mm..yeah. Just work stuff. Stressed," he responds allusively, flashing a casual smile Arthur's way.

 

Naturally, Arthur doesn't look like he buys Jack's breezy demeanour. "Yeah?" he asks, walking over to the kitchen to tend to whatever is simmering on the stove. The living room and kitchen are separated by a counter, so Arthur can still easily see Jack when he glances over to them. "Tell me."

 

"Ah.." Jack dismisses, waving his hand through the air. "Just this woman Uncle Dom hired."

 

"That Selena woman you mentioned before?" Eames asks, tearing his gaze from the match to look at him.

 

Jack nods, opening his mouth to speak, but Arthur interrupts before he can articulate a thought. "Selena? Who is Selena?" he asks, appearing at the counter, frowning at Jack. "Why didn't you tell me about her?"

 

He sighs, holding up his palms helplessly because he doesn't want to say _because you'd react this way_ , lest it start a spectacular fight. "It just..didn't come up."

 

Arthur's eyes slowly narrow. "Well, why is she stressing you?"

 

Football game and lunch forgotten, his fathers look at him, awaiting his response. Jack sighs loudly. "She's just…very particular, I guess." When Arthur looks unimpressed by that response, he continues: "She's constantly undercutting me in front of Uncle Dom, and second-guessing my judgment. All we do is bicker—" Jack stops mid-sentence when he notices Arthur exchange a strange look with Eames. "And _why_ does everyone keep giving me that look when I talk about this?" he sighs, exasperated. "Uncle Dom looked at me the exact same way."

 

Eames chuckles at his side. "I'll bet."

 

Jack hears Arthur snickering in the kitchen, but when he levels an icy glare at him, he at least has the decency to cover his mouth and shield his smile. "Sorry, baby. We're not laughing at you. It's just…part of working with conflicting personalities. I used to fight with your dad all the time."

 

Jack rolls his eyes. Comparing his fathers' previous working relationship with the hell he's currently experiencing with Selena is _ridiculous._ "Uh-huh. Well, great. In the meantime, I have an omega berating me at work."

 

Eames clears his throat in warning, but it's too late. Arthur sets down the parsing knife onto the counter with an audible click. "Why does it matter she's an omega?"

 

"What? Oh…it's doesn't. I'm just…she's an omega. She also has dark hair, you know? It's just a descriptive detail," he stammers.

 

"Danger…danger.." Eames murmurs under his breath.

 

Arthur doesn't seem to hear him because he's still eyeing Jack critically. "Omegas are very good teammates. I'm not just saying that because I am one. It's a fact," he says, now disconcertingly clutching the knife again and waving it through the air, using the tip to punctuate his point. "If you're not getting along with this woman, that's one thing, but don't use the simple biological reality that she's an omega against her. We raised you better than that."

 

Jack holds up his hands in surrender. "You're right. You're absolutely right. I apologize," he says, knowing he's beat, and drawing on lessons taught to him by Eames for how to escape a disagreement with Arthur alive. _Apologize. Repent. Repeat_.

 

The frantic voice of the soccer announcer murmurs in the background while Arthur eyes him in silence. "It'll do you some good to work with an omega," he says eventually, gaze dropping to the minced vegetables laying in his wake. 

 

Jack sighs because this is the exact same thing Eames said to him in the grocery store when he first brought up the terrorist named Selena. 

 

Everyone is against him, and no one seems to understand.

 

***

 

Rose is constructing little paper models of Le Meurice, and keeps photos of the opulent space spread across her desk. For hours, she studies the grand chandeliers, floor-to-ceiling mirrors, and baroque art that hangs on the walls. Rose is the opposite of Jack. She works incredibly hard at her job, and doesn't pretend that it's something that happens effortlessly. 

 

Selena, of course, loves this about his sister.

 

She sits on the edge of Rose's desk, her long legs crossed as she eyes the delicate paper creations. "And this helps you get a spatial awareness of the place?" 

 

Like always, she's wearing one of her pencil skirts, but this one has a slit up the back that reveals a bit of her creamy thighs —just a sliver above the knees— when she walks up and down the length of the office to check in on them. Jack is seated at his desk, eyeing her, but when Selena looks his way, he quickly buries his face in the daily itinerary she just dropped off. God forbid she sees him staring off into space when he should be correcting his terrible, terrible forges. She'll probably instruct Dom to immediately fire him. And then Arthur will say _I told you so_.

 

Rose smiles brightly because Selena has taken an interest in her dumb models and Rose has always been a bit of a teacher's pet. "Yeah, it helps me memorise all the details."

 

"Fascinating," Selena purrs approvingly, leaning across to get a closer look at the creation, the hem of her skirt riding a little higher on her thigh.

 

Jack looks away and glares at a photo of Madeline van Dijk. _I'm going to look exactly like you, you old bat. I'll do it even if it kills me_.

 

***

 

Eventually, the logistics of the van Dijk's romantic relationship is addressed. They're in the final phases of planning, and Jack finally has the nerve to ask during one of their meetings: "Why does he want to see Madeline in her later years? Wouldn't he want to see her when she was in her twenties?"

 

Selena's hair is down today, cascading down the back of her white blouse, pinned at the back with an ivory-coloured clip. Her hair sways a bit when she turns to face Jack. "We don't want to upset him. Mr. van Dijk is in a very fragile mental state at his age. We're looking to provide him with a comforting memory—not shock him into a coma."

 

Jack nods slowly. He supposes that makes sense. "But, uh…what if he wants to..physically reunite with his beloved?"

 

Dom, who has been silently observing the dialogue until this point, jumps in: "Would you be against that?"

 

Jack shrugs slowly, self-conscious now that all eyes are set on him. "Depends. Are we talking holding hands or something else?"

 

His sister snorts with laughter, but tries to mask the sound with a cough. From the front of the room, Dom smirks. "I'm not running a brothel, Jack," he says, arms folded in front of him. "Just do what makes you comfortable."

 

Jack shifts on his chair, frowning because he doesn't enjoy being treated like he's in the remedial class. "Well, what would my dad have done?" he asks.

 

Dom smirks slowly. "If I asked your dad to sleep with an octogenarian? He'd have put my head through a wall."

 

Selena and Rose titter in response, and Jack grins. It's a nice moment—the first time they've relaxed as a unit. Selena's lips are red and bright against her pale skin, and her teeth are white and straight. She looks much younger when she laughs.

 

 _Well, okay then_.

 

***

 

The next time Selena goes under with them, Jack shifts into Madeline's skin and awaits the critique. Circling him like a shark, Selena scrutinises him from every angle, particularly the face, which Jack knows is perfect because he's spent hundreds of hours committing to memory the exact shade of blue-violet of her eyes, and the tiny flecks of gold by the pupils that catch the light. The dress is a heavy knit, the stitching meticulous, and Jack includes the detail of a turtle pin above Madeline's right breast—her favorite animal, and her favorite broach.

 

Selena hums thoughtfully, consulting her clipboard with the mile-long checklist. "Very nice," she says eventually, and Madeline-as-Jack leans forward minutely because he actually thinks he's misheard her for a second.

 

"Say again?" he asks, shedding Madeline. The pen clicks loudly and Selena smirks as she scribbles a note into his file. "Are you writing that I'm handsome and talented?"

 

"I'm writing you're talented," she says, looking up at him, the challenging little grin still on her lips.

 

" _Very_ talented?" he asks, pitching his voice low, teasing. For the first time ever, he feels like he's on even footing with the omega. Gradually, he's remembering concepts like _confidence_ and _flirting_.

 

Surprisingly, Selena doesn't respond with snark or venom. Her expression is soft, and her smile sweet, and Jack forgets to breathe for a split second. " _Very_ talented, Mr. Eames." 

 

Which is when the timer runs out and they wake up.

 

Jack lays on the lawn chair for a while, staring at the ceiling.

 

 _Oh_.

 

He doesn't get a chance to process if something really did happen, or if he imagined it all because Selena is already detached from the machine, and volunteering to pick up lunch for them, even though she hasn't asked them what they want.

 

By the time Jack sits up, she's fled the office, and he hears heels clicking in the hallway.

 

***

 

Everything changes on the van Dijk job. 

 

Jack has portrayed clients' spouses before—quite frequently, actually. He's played deceased wives, and husbands, brothers, sisters, daughters, and sons, of all ages and races. He's pretended to be betas and omegas and alphas of different heights, weights, races, and creeds. But he wore those skins at a different time in his life, when he wasn't thinking deeply about things like bonds, and mates, and love.

 

He doesn't expect the van Dijk job to be so difficult.

 

When they walk into the office Thursday morning, Boris van Dijk is already attached to the machine and asleep, and Selena is standing beside a middle-aged woman who he quickly determines must be their client, Hildy. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head in a slightly updated version of Madeline's archetypical 'do, and she's wearing a string of pearls that probably cost as much as Jack's four-year university education. Selena is speaking softly to Hildy, whose gaze remains locked on her father, a worried furrow pitched between her eyes.

 

"He'll just be under for fifteen minutes," he hears Selena explaining to her employer, smiling when she lays eyes upon Jack, which he thinks is the first time she's ever expressed happiness upon seeing him. "Ah, and here is Mr. Eames. He's our forger."

 

Jack tries to forget the last time Selena said that— _Mr. Eames_ —and how he felt when they flirted. Then he remembers that it might not have _actually_ been flirting, and it could have all been in his head, and when he comes back down to earth, Hildy van Dijk is gazing curiously at him. "Very nice to meet you," Jack says, offering his hand. Hildy slips her hand into his, palm down, and doesn't withdraw it. It takes him a few seconds to realise she's waiting for him to kiss her hand, which he does, but awkwardly and in a rushed fashion.

 

He doesn't understand rich people.

 

Thankfully, Dom and Selena do most of the socialising and narration of their plan. All Jack and Rose have to do is wait, and when Dom gives the signal, hook up to the machine. Hildy and Selena won't be joining them, much to Jack's relief. This way, he only has to focus on the date with Boris at _Le Meurice_. 

 

Jack's head lolls to the side and he watches Dom flip open the PASIV and hover a finger above the orange button. "Ready?" he asks, glancing over at Jack and Rose. Jack only nods once and then everything goes dark.

 

When he opens his eyes, he's seated at table at _Le Meurice,_ the buzz of soft conversation and a live violin concerto fill his ears—or rather, Madeline's ears, which are exposed because her hair is pulled up in a formal bun, twin diamond chandelier earrings dangling, framing her face. Jack slips into her skin effortlessly, and when he looks across the table to Boris, he knows he's nailed it because the man is gazing back at him with wide, worshipful eyes.

 

"Bunny…" he exclaims softly, the nickname barely escaping his mouth.

 

Jack is dimly afraid the man will know he's dreaming instantly, but the chatter around them never pauses, and the waiters don't hesitate in their confident strides to and from the kitchen area. "Fifty years," Madeline's voice says as it leaves his mouth, because this is where they spent their anniversary together, the last wedding anniversary before Madeline had a massive heart attack in her living room and died instantly. Jack smiles with Madeline's mouth, mirroring an expression he's studied in countless photos and video. "This is so wonderful, my love. Thank you for arranging this."

 

Boris' eyes shine with unshed tears, and Jack knows a part of him must understand this isn't real, but he's too overcome with joy at seeing his deceased wife to carefully scrutinise what's going on. "You look so beautiful," he whispers, reaching across the table to firmly grip Madeline's hand. "I'm so happy you're here."

 

Madeline's expression radiates love, as it would have looked that night at _Le Meurice_ , even though Jack feels his throat constrict and he finds it difficult to maintain eye contact with Boris. The man is so unguarded in that moment that Jack feels guilty, like he shouldn't be witnessing the unfiltered affection, but of course he must not only witness it, but participate in it. Madeline rolls her hand on the table and squeezes his hand. "Of course I'm here. As if I'd miss this," she replies, flashing a warm smile. 

 

Their waiter approaches and takes their wine order, and moments later fills their glasses with the dark burgundy liquor. Jack picks up the glass, sips, and his mind supplies the rest: the illusion of taste, the memory of wine, even though he knows his memory is different than Boris' because he is not really Madeline, and he is not a part of their great love story. For the first time, it occurs to Jack that _he's_ a tourist, and always has been, pretending to be these beloved people.

 

When he looks up, the waiter is staring intensely at him.

 

He takes a deep breath, pulls himself together, and says in Madeline's voice: "I'll have the lamb." 

 

The stream of conversation returns, and their waiter smiles politely. "Of course, madam."

 

Boris won't stop gazing at him, even when they're eating, and Jack smiles whenever their eyes meet. "Your food will get cold," Madeline teases at one point.

 

"Oh, yes…" he says, apparently remember he should be eating, and picks up his silverware.

 

Jack watches the top of his balding head as it bows over his plate. He tries not to think about his parents—about how lost Eames would be without Arthur, or vice versa. Being self-involved most of his life meant that Jack never thought about long-term realities like finding a mate, or his loved ones dying. He's never considered a world in which his parents no longer have each other for constant love and support.

 

He supposes Boris never thought about that possibility either.

 

When the chandelier above them rattles, Jack clutches the fork in his hand—in _Madeline's_ hand—and presses the prong into his fingertip roughly, just to keep his mind focused. The prick of pain pulls him back into the present, just in time to deliver another loving smile to Boris, whose face lights up in response. At least for the time being, Boris seems unaware that Jack has almost brought down the entire world around them with the weight of his sadness.

 

The timer hasn't run out by the time they finish dinner and dessert, so they go for a walk in Tuileries Garden, which is quiet this time of night. Boris holds his hand tightly, occasionally bringing his wife's fingers to his lips to kiss the back of them. It occurs to Jack that Boris is going to kiss him eventually, but he's surprised that the idea rattles him. Jack has been a forger for a while now, and clients have kissed him before. Wearing the face of other people normally serves as a buffer between the client and his real self. It's almost like watching a movie when he's pretending to be someone else.

 

That's usually how it is, anyway.

 

But this time, he feels oddly connected with Madeline, and he doesn't know why he can't detach and passively observe from above this time—why the light in Boris' eyes keep dragging him down. 

 

The first warning sign is a tightening in his chest—not in Madeline's chest, but Jack's real chest. As they stroll along the pavement towards one of the fountains, passersby stare at them, and Jack knows he's quickly losing control of the situation. He can't stop thinking of the look in Boris' eyes, and how it's the same way his parents look at each other, and how Max and Ravi look at each other, and how no one has ever looked at him like that.

 

 _But it doesn't matter_ , he tells himself. _Jesus, keep it together._

 

It all comes apart when they pause before a fountain and Boris takes Madeline's hands in his own, and then leaves close to her. 

 

Jack is panicking. His heart is going to explode out of Madeline's couture-covered chest, and he's been Max's support system long enough to know what he's experiencing is a panic attack—his first ever. He's going to botch the job. He's going to cost Dom money, and Selena will hate him.

 

It's that last thought that summons the police officer, who stalks across the promenade towards them, clutching the blade. Jack at least has the presence of mind to throw Boris out of the way, so he's the one who gets stabbed repeatedly in the stomach. Jack opens his mouth, but no sound comes out as he collapses to his knees. All the world is blinding pain, and blood, hot and wet, pours onto his hands when he covers the wound. He just hopes Boris doesn't see what happens, which is his last thought before bleeding out.

 

Jack sits up so fast in his chair that it nearly topples over, but Dom is there to steady him, and carefully remove the line from his arm. "Easy…breathe…breathe," he hears his uncle say.

 

"Just get this thing off me," Jack grunts, and when Dom untethers him, he darts from the room.

 

Jack runs. 

 

He flees down the emergency exit staircase, and when he's outside, walks to his car and secures his emergency pack of cigarettes. Jack barely smokes these days, but he's willing to make an exception today. There's no where to sit on the ground level, so Jack ends up seated on the steps as he smokes, and stares off at the desolate back area of the office building comprised of some dumpsters and litter.

 

He's furious with himself. All those weeks of hard work down the drain, and why? Because he was feeling sentimental?

 

"What the hell, Jack?" Rose spits accusingly the second she emerges from the backdoor. "I was by the _Louvre_. Let me tell you how awesome it is to have a giant glass pyramid crash in front of you." But the mask of anger slips from her face the second she sees how wrecked he is. "What happened?"

 

Jack waves his hand through the air. "I fucked up," he replies, taking another drag, and hoping for once his sister won't be so damn perceptive. 

 

Rose stares in exasperation at him. "But _how_? We prepped for so long."

 

He exhales slowly, smoke billowing from his nose and mouth. "How's Boris?" he asks instead, hoping to deviate attention away from himself.

 

Rose sighs, gesturing towards the building. "He woke up saying, 'How wonderful, how wonderful, Madeline,' so I think he's okay." 

 

Jack nods slowly. Well, at least there's that small comfort. Maybe Jack knocked him out when he shoved Boris aside in the dream.

 

Any relief he feels vanishes when the backdoor opens and Selena is standing there. His sister and the omega must have one of their silent conversations because the next thing Jack knows, Rose is ascending the steps to go back inside, but she pauses at the top of the staircase to supportively squeeze his shoulder. Then she's gone, and it's just Jack and Selena lingering outside.

 

She's standing behind him, but Jack can still smell her beneath the scent of smoke and perfume. He can always smell Selena.

 

"If you're here to tell me I ruined the job, there's no need," he says, flicking the cigarette a bit to send a column of ash into the wind.

 

Selena sighs, and slowly moves to sit beside him, her legs folded demurely to the side. When he glances at her, Selena's expression is soft—unlike the judgmental scowl he's become accustomed to. "Are you okay?" she asks, gently touching his arm.

 

The surge of anger he feels is unexpected, and Jack yanks back his arm. "Don't—" but he stops himself, knowing he's being irrational. "I'm fine."

 

Selena doesn't answer him, or challenge that assertion. Jack doesn't know what he's more afraid of: the omega staying, or leaving. He doesn't want to see the fear and concern in her face, but he also hates the thought of being left alone with his thoughts.

 

"The van Dijks raised me," Selena says suddenly, and Jack is so startled that words are coming out of her mouth that aren't a reprimand or a hash critique that he immediately looks over to her, his own anxiety forgotten. Selena offers a small, self-conscious smile. "They sort of adopted me, actually. I was hoping…this could be my version of paying them back, at least in my own small way," she adds, fingers gripping her knee caps tightly. Jack watches her, and has the belated realization that Selena is nervous. "That's why I took the job so seriously. I'm sorry…if I was harsh."

 

It's a vast understatement, but the confession and apology are also genuine. 

 

Jack nods slowly, flicking aside the remainder of his cigarette. Selena is always crisp, polished, and smells good, so he doesn't want to blow smoke into her face. "It's okay. I'm sorry for being an asshole," he says, flashing a weak grin her way. "And I'm sorry for botching the job," he adds.

 

Selena shakes her head. "Actually, you're okay on that front. Mr. van Dijk seems very happy," she says, glancing back to the building as if to see Boris. Jack watches her profile a moment, and the way the strands of her dark hair billow around her pale face. "That must be hard…pretending to be in love with someone you don't know."

 

Jack shrugs, still feeling raw, and not liking how close Selena is to naming the thing that broke him apart. "It's just acting."

 

Selena looks at him steadily, her eyes dark and intelligent. "I'd find it exhausting."

 

It's strange because Jack knows this is Selena trying to empathize, but he's not sure why she's going this extra mile to comfort him—or why she's even hanging around at all, for that matter. The job is done. Boris, and by extension, Hildy are happy. They'll all get paid. There's no reason for her to be lingering, comforting the weakest member of the team.

 

"I guess it is…" Jack begins cautiously, wading into unknown waters. "I feel like I can research only so much, and then there's just…stuff I can't know yet. If that makes sense. And then there's all this other stuff I don't want to think about, like people getting older and dying." Jack furrows his brow and glances at Selena, expecting her to look confused or judgmental, but instead her face is calm, her eyes warm. "Sorry, I feel like I've behaved completely unprofessionally."

 

She shakes her head. "Not at all. I know what you mean. When Madeline was alive…the way Boris looked at her," she smiles weakly, "I've never seen anything like it."

 

He feels as though they've made great progress, and yet he's more confused than ever—unsure if they're even talking about the same thing—and Jack doesn't even get an opportunity to decode what Selena is saying because she suddenly stands. "I'll be sure to wire along the payments as soon as possible. Thank you again, Mr. Eames," and then she's gone, the steel door grinding closed behind her.

 

Jack thinks that's it—that he'll never see Selena Kim again.

 

He certainly doesn't expect to see her again that night, when she returns to the office as he's boxing up his desk.


	43. Jack and Selena (part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Selena — part 2  
> Jack gets some advice

The job is over, so Jack is expected to clear out his desk of the client's files, but he has until tonight to sweep his workspace. Until then, he needs to get away from the office, which is why he decides to drive over to Max and Ravi's. He makes his escape by telling Rose that Max needs to speak with _him_ , a bold-faced lie, but when he's pulling out of the parking lot, windows rolled down, a cigarette dangling between his lips, Jack's conscience is clear.

 

He just needs some time to think.

 

His last moral support outing hadn't gone spectacularly. In the end, Arthur had told _him_ that _he's_ the one who needs to change, and Jack doesn't want to hear that. He presses his foot to the pedal, accelerating down the highway 60…70…80 MPH, speeding towards the exit that will bring him to his brother. Jack never glances in his rearview mirror to look for police officers.

 

If he was really honest with himself, he'd acknowledge that a small, dark part of him hopes a cop will stop him.

 

The itch to fight never really goes away.

 

When he arrives at their house, Jack parks in the driveway, approaches the door, grips the knob, and twists it. The second it opens, he purses his lips and exhales loudly through his nose. Max is a trusting soul—sometimes to a fault. 

 

"You gotta keep this thing locked—" Jack says, by way of greeting, but he stops when he sees Frank sitting in the middle of the living room. The other alpha has Aady reclined against his chest, while Charles crawls around. "Oh, shit. Sorry. I didn't know…" he trails off, gaze raking across the room until he sees his brother seated in the kitchen, looking back at him in surprise.

 

"Hey!" Max cries, smiling brightly. He's on his feet and crossing the room before Jack can make a dignified escape. He needs to speak with his brother, but he doesn't want to do so in front of Frank.

 

"I didn't know you have company," Jack mumbles, forgetting to feel awkward for a split second when Max throws his arms around his neck. He automatically wraps his arms around Max and hugs him tightly, chuckling faintly in amusement at his brother's enthusiasm. He just saw Max last week, but an impartial observer would never guess that based on his excited greeting. Jack gets it, though. They used to spend every minute of the day together in the same room, and even though that was a lifetime ago, Jack sometimes wakes up in the middle of the night and misses Max. In those moments, his brother might as well be on a different planet.

 

When they separate, Max smiles fondly at him and reaches up to smooth down the tuft of hair that sometimes extends at the back of his skull—on the rough days, when he's not particularly concerned about his appearance.

 

" _Company_?" Frank's gravelly voice resonates from over Jack's shoulder. "That's a fancy way to say babysitting slave."

 

Max is rolling his eyes when they separate, and he glares past Jack. "You sit around all day and watch _Bravo_ with me, Frank. You're not a slave." The bright smile returns to his face when he looks at Jack. "Come see your niece and nephew."

 

Temporarily, Jack forgets to feel bitter and unstable when he grins and follows Max into the living room. "Where are they?" he asks, superfluously, because Charles has already heard his uncle's voice, and is gazing up at him, a wide, toothless smile splayed across his face. "Ah! There's my handsome boy!" Jack roars, reaching down to pluck the baby off the floor so he can cradle him. He immediately supports the head, just as Max taught him, and proceeds to make foolish faces at his nephew, which is really the limits of their interaction, but Charles loves it—squealing and cracking up at his ridiculous uncle's antics.

 

Max hurries to get the camera and tells Jack not to move. He quietly humors his brother's photophile tendencies, only pausing to switch babies, so that he can lavish Aady with the same amount of attention. Aadita is quieter than her brother, but she watches everything Jack does with wide eyes, like she's committing every detail of his being to memory. It's a little unnerving and hugely flattering. 

 

"They love you so much," Max sighs.

 

"Not as much as their Uncle Frank," the other alpha gloats from his spot on the floor, looking ridiculous with the pants legs of his trousers hiked up, exposing black socks. Jack briefly wonders why the man wears a suit to babysit, but then he remembers that Arthur probably insisted upon it.

 

Jack smirks, but refuses to take the bait. Instead, he carefully hands Aady back to Frank and turns to face his brother. Frank cradles Aady expertly, and the baby immediately mouths at the shoulder of his wrinkled jacket. But judging by the cheap-looking fabric, it's no real loss. Jack's brain dimly acknowledges that he knows exactly what kind of fabric, and stitching, were used in the construction of that suit, and then that word — _cheap_ —echoes in his head again, this time in Selena's voice. "Can we…um…talk?" Jack glances briefly at Frank. "Privately?"

 

"Oh, don't mind me. No one else does," Frank moans, nodding to Max. "This one leaves me with the babies and then goes to knock boots with Mr. Lalla, like I'm not even here," he adds, then whispers conspiratorially to Jack, "I'm thinking of unionising."

 

Max's face flushes in embarrassment. "Frank, shut up," he growls, grabbing Jack by the arm to pull him into the kitchen, where they don't have privacy, exactly, but at least they're a little farther away from the other alpha. "Sorry about that," he mumbles, cheeks still scarlet. "Are you hungry? Want some tea?" he rambles, already opening cabinets, no doubt preparing to launch into prepping a lavish meal for Jack. Eames has been teaching Max how to cook, and he's actually gotten pretty good, but a byproduct of this endeavor has been Max's compulsive need to fatten up Jack, or really any person who naively wanders into his kitchen.

 

"Nah, m'okay," he answers, but Max ignores him and keeps rummaging until he adds: "Max, really. I just need to talk."

 

Which maybe was not the best way to phrase things because it sounds very dramatic, and of course Max assumes the worst. He immediately shuts the cabinet door and frowns at him. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

 

Jack sighs and flops down at the kitchen table, nudging the chair beside him with the tip of his shoe so Max can join him. "Just…sit."

 

He feels slightly guilty because Max looks so worried when he sits down, and then he wonders if his brother really is imagining the worst—that Jack is dying, or something, which makes him feel like a spectacular asshole. Normally, he'd talk with Rose about something like this, but he can't because his sister works with him, and he tried to talk with Arthur and Eames, but that didn't work. So that just leaves Max—not that Max is bad at listening or giving advice, but he just frets so damn much that Jack normally prefers to spare him any angst.

 

The fear in Max's eyes spurs Jack to quickly recap everything: the job screwup, Selena, Arthur making him feel like everything is _his_ fault. Max listens dutifully the whole time, nodding in the right places, frowning in sympathy when it's appropriate. When Jack gets to the part about Boris, the panic attack, and the dream collapsing, Max reaches across the table and covers Jack's hand. "That must have been really hard," he whispers.

 

Jack swallows thickly and nods. "Yeah, and scary as hell. I just feel really out of control, and I don't know what's going on. I'm just…pissed off at everything." He sighs and slumps back in his chair. Lately, he resents everyone: Arthur and Eames for not immediately siding with him, Rose and Dom for getting along with Selena, and Selena for….well…completely fucking up his life.

 

The little furrow appears between Max's eyes that means he's thinking deeply about a subject. "Well…you've always had an anger issue with omegas," he says slowly, as if knowing he's wading into dangerous territory, which Jack supposes illustrates his exact point. Max is worried Jack is going to blow up in anger. And because he hates being a cliche, Jack refuses to play into that stereotype. Instead, he calmly gazes back at Max, waiting for him to finish. "I mean…you always fought with me growing up," Max adds cautiously, "And with dad…"

 

Jack sighs. "Yeah, but that was different. I was a stupid kid then."

 

Max is quiet for a moment, chin slightly bowed as he gazes down at his hands. He's pondering something, and finally he asks softly: "What triggered the panic attack in the dream?"

 

"What do you mean?" Jack asks, eyes narrowing.

 

"Well, you've played romantic interests before, right? What was different about this time?" Max asks, now looking at Jack again, eyes shining curiously.

 

Jack silently mulls over that, refusing to look at the giant elephant in the room. He remembers the dream clearly, the final moments before everything went to hell, when he couldn't stop thinking of his parents, and Max and Ravi, and all the things that aren't for him—of the beautiful possibilities that can't fit into his life. "I don't know," he rasps, lying, because even now he can't look squarely at the truth. It's too bright, and it makes his head hurt.

 

"You like her," Frank suddenly calls from the living room.

 

Which is when Jack realizes the TV is now softly murmuring in the background. Frank must have turned it down, but Jack isn't sure when. Maybe a while ago. Maybe Frank has been eavesdropping since the beginning of their conversation. His jaw immediately locks, a muscle tightening in his cheek. "What?" he growls, and Max covers his hand again, attempting to calm him. Jack takes a slow breath, and feels it again—the unquenchable anger—the desire to storm over to Frank and throttle him.

 

Ordinarily, Jack is a pretty laid back guy…until he's not. There's no grey area with him. He's either the affable, charming alpha, or the unhinged lunatic that omegas' parents warn them about—the type shown on the news in mugshots and riot footage. He hates that unpredictable side, so when Max grabs his hand, Jack focuses on the anchor, and slows his breathing.

 

"That girl. Selena," Frank casually remarks. "That's what was different. She dragged up all the feelings because you like her."

 

"I don't like her," Jacks spits. "I can't fucking stand her. Weren't you listening?"

 

It's almost worse not being able to see Frank because he's sitting on the floor. His disembodied voice feels like Jack's conscience speaking to him: "Sounds like built up sexual tension to me," Frank chuckles.

 

Jack nearly launches out of his chair, but Max darts up first. "Frank, shut up," he hisses, then points at Jack. "You will not fight in front of my kids, understand?"

 

The command (especially coming from Max) startles him out of his rage haze. Jack blinks owlishly and nods. "Yeah..sorry," he mumbles, breathing deeply. He just needs to focus on his breathing—an old trick Eames taught him to cope with his anger when he was a hormone-riddled teenager.

 

"M'just saying.." Frank prattles on, oblivious or amused by Jack's reaction. "We alphas only have a couple settings, right? And anger and horny are right beside each other. You might have a crossed wire, kid, but you sound like you dig this girl."

 

His face burns, but he keeps breathing. The fog in his head is making it difficult to think, but he tries to cling to certain points: Max's hand covering his own, the scent of his niece and nephew. He can't fight in front of the kids. "I'm going to quit," he finally whispers, gazing helplessly at Max. Dreamshare is his entire life—his only true passion, but he doesn't know what else he can do. He doesn't trust himself anymore. What's to stop him from ruining the next job if someone wants him to play a deceased loved one?

 

He's a liability.

 

Max's hand slips off when he leans back in the chair. He seems calmer, perhaps knowing Jack isn't going to fly across the room and attack Frank. "Why would it be so bad if you like her, Jack?"

 

The question slams into him like a truck, and leaves him breathless as he stares blankly at Max. A long silence follows—total silence, because Frank must have turned off the TV. His first impulse is to deny that he likes her at all, but he can't find the words. 

 

"Is it because you think you'll ruin it?" Max asks quietly. "Is that why you run away from things you're good at?"

 

Jack finally draws in a big breath. "What?" he gasps, feeling his heart beating hard in his chest, like it did in the dream.

 

Max frowns, as if afraid to continue, but he does eventually: "Football…Marcy…" he proceeds, listing all of Jack's prior failures: his football career, his first serious girlfriend, who loved him so much, but Jack couldn't return the kindness. "Don't you think you deserve to be happy?"

 

Jack scoffs at the question because it sounds like something a love advice guru would ask on one of the terrible morning talk shows that Max watches religiously. But then he actually considers the sentiment behind the question and finds he doesn't really know how to answer it. Jack knows his strengths and weaknesses. He excels at forging, but he doesn't know if he'll make a good mate. Hell, he doesn't even know if he could be a good boyfriend because he's never really tried committing to anyone before.

 

He's terrified he'll never be like Arthur and Eames, or Max and Ravi—that essential half to a whole.

 

What if he wanders the earth alone forever?

 

What if he ends up like Frank?

 

Max seems unnerved by the lengthy silence because he shifts, fidgeting with the sleeve of his sweater like he used to as a little boy whenever he was experiencing anxiety or fear. "Jack…it seems like you might be running from a good thing again. You're really good at the dreaming stuff, and maybe this woman likes you too."

 

***

 

Rose is kind of a hot mess right now. She's shed her blazer, rolled up the sleeves of her blouse, and is practically sweating through the cotton as she feeds paper after paper into the shredder. This is standard procedure post-job. Dom wants them to keep a master file on their former clients, just in case they ever request DreamCorp's services again. But other than the slender manilla file Rose will eventually put away in one of the steel cabinets lining the wall, Dom requests they destroy all other excessive details collected during a job—for the sake of neatness and the privacy of their clients.

 

That means shredding. Lots of shredding.

 

Dom is doing the same in his office, and Selena is helping, a good thing considering Jack is taking his sweet time coming back to the office to clear his desk. Anytime Rose looks up, she sees the mountains of papers on Jack's workspace and frowns deeply. They're going to be here until midnight at this rate.

 

It's boring, monotonous work, and distantly Rose can hear Dom and Selena talking. Her mind wanders, and she daydreams about what they could be talking about—maybe Jack's screw up on the job. But when she leans over in the chair, straining to hear their voices, the door suddenly flies open and Rose nearly face-plants on the floor. 

 

Dom is standing in the door of his office. "Everything going all right out here?"

 

Rose desperately hopes she looks casual when she shoves another paper into the shredder. "Uh, yeah. You guys need help in there?"

 

Shaking his head, Dom squints out over the floor, his gaze lingering on Jack's desk. "Let me know when he's back," he says, referring to Jack without naming him specifically.

 

Rose wonders if that's a bad sign, but she nods slowly. "Sure."

 

Before Dom shuts the door again, Selena emerges into the main office space. Though she too has been toiling for the better part of three hours, she hasn't shed her blazer, nor is a hair askew in the thick mane falling down her back. If Rose wasn't consumed by awe, she might feel a little envious.

 

"Need help?" Selena asks, when she's standing in front of Rose's desk.

 

"Um.." Rose answers, looking from her desk over to Jack's disastrous work space. "I guess…maybe you can start clearing off Jack's desk?" She doesn't necessarily need the help, but thinks that Selena might spill the beans about what she was talking about with Dom if they're sitting together in the same room for an extended period of time. 

 

"Sure," Selena says, clearly already itching to straighten and clean the space. Rose silently smirks when Selena hurries over to the desk and immediately begins organizing the papers. It must have been driving her and her Type A personality insane to walk past Jack's disorganised station every day.

 

They work quietly for a bit until Rose grows impatient and asks: "So….what were you and Dom chatting about?" It's a risky gamble —blurting it out like that— but Rose doesn't think Selena will confess anything without being prompted, and Rose is afraid for her brother. Namely, she's afraid Jack isn't going to have a job by the time he gets back. For all she knows, Selena and Dom were listing the litany of reasons Jack is a liability for the company. The truth is, Jack is sometimes a loose cannon, and oftentimes unprofessional. But weighed against all the bad is the undeniable truth that her brother is an extremely gifted forger. Maybe even the best — not that she'd ever say that to Eames.

 

Rose looks up sharply when Selena sighs quietly because, for a moment, she imagines that noise is confirmation that they _had_ been discussing firing Jack. But then Selena smiles faintly and Rose thinks, no, it can't be bad news. "Mr. Cobb asked me to stay on full-time," she says, smiling in what Rose could only describe as self-deprecatingly, which is a strange reaction given this a huge deal. Dom is extremely picky about who he hires, and he's never once hired someone working for a client.

 

"Holy shit," Rose gasps, smiling brightly. "That's incredible. Congratulations."

 

Selena's smile is still hesitant. "Yeah, I'm very flattered. Thank you." She's cradling a pile of papers to her chest, leafing at them disinterestedly. "But I don't think I can accept the position," she adds, sighing when Rose gapes at her in disbelief, "I doubt Mr. Eames would be thrilled."

 

Rose rolls her eyes. "Selena, look…" she says, setting down a stack of papers on her desk. "My brother is dealing with a lot of stuff right now that doesn't really have anything to do with you. Whatever is going on in his head…he'll get over it. But you can't pass up an amazing opportunity like this." She makes this suggestion partly out of frustration with Jack. Her brother is being moody and irrational lately, and it's wearing on her nerves. But also, Rose selfishly enjoys working with Selena. She likes her organisational skills, and drive, and polite detachment in the face of Jack's hot wrath.

 

"Really?" Selana asks, frowning thoughtfully. "You don't think Mr. Eames will retaliate?"

 

Rose smirks. "You're thinking he'll poison you?"

 

"No, that seems too subtle. Maybe a car bomb," she answers, grinning.

 

Rose bursts out laughing, shaking her head. "You're right. That's more his style." 

 

Selena still seems hesitant and unsure when her lips quirk up at the corner. "You really think I should take it?"

 

"Absolutely," she answers honestly, grinning when Selena finally smiles. "I need another woman around here to keep the boys in check."

 

Selena laughs. "I can definitely help with that."

 

***

 

Jack shows up eventually, car keys dangling from his fingers, his collar unbuttoned low enough that Rose can see the chain of a necklace extending down his chest. It's hardly proper attire, but she's just glad he showed up. 

 

"Um..Dom wants to see you," she says when he stops in the middle of the office and stares at Selena, who bolts up from his chair like she's been electrocuted.

 

"I was just…helping sort things," she says, immediately setting down the papers in her hands. "I didn't destroy anything that seemed important—"

 

Jack holds up his hand. "It's okay. It's fine. Thanks," he replies calmly, which stuns both Rose and Selena because they were expecting a huge blow out upon his return, especially considering Selena, his mortal enemy, is sitting at his work station. But instead, her brother walks past them and towards Dom's office, leaving the women in his wake, slightly slack-jawed.  

 

Jack knocks twice on Dom's door, and enters when the other alpha calls, "Come in!" When Jack opens the door, he sees Dom seated at his desk.

 

As expected, Dom's office is empty of clutter now, save for a big bin of shredded documents. Once they take the bags out to the dumpsters, the office will be virtually empty, until the next client comes in. "Hey, sorry I took so long. Family emergency."

 

Dom looks unconvinced, but he's merciful enough not to challenge the excuse. "Come in a second. Take a seat," he says, gesturing to an empty chair in front of the desk.

 

Jack purses his lips, but obeys. This is what he was dreading. A small, hopeful part of him had thought maybe Dom wouldn't bring up the botched job, and would permit Jack to return to a relative sense of normalcy. He sits down heavily, sighing because he feels like his head is already on the chopping block. There's an eight-mile long line of forgers who would kill to work with Dominic Cobb, and while none of them are as good as Jack, that doesn't make him irreplaceable.

 

"Tell me what happened down there," Dom instructs in his infuriatingly calm way.

 

Jack feels like he's back in the school therapist's office, talking out his feelings again.

 

"I panicked," he answers, "And I've had a hard time shedding Madeline completely," he adds, which is a truth he never gave voice to until this moment. His conversation with Max got him partway there, but it isn't until he's looking at the calm, non-judgmental face of Dom that he fully realizes what's been haunting him since the job. "It stirred up a lot of feelings I've been keeping repressed for a long time."

 

Dom nods slowly. "Understandable. It happens, Jack," he says, leaning back in his chair. "We're in people's minds. We open our own minds to _them_. Things get very dodgy, very quickly, but the most important thing I want you to remember is you don't have to be a hero. And you don't have to put yourself last."

 

"Yeah, I have a habit of doing that," Jack says, smirking faintly.

 

Dom smiles slightly. "Arthur did too. I mean this as a compliment, but you remind me of both of your fathers. You have the raw talent of Eames and the drive of Arthur, but that has a downside."

 

Jack nods slowly because he knows exactly what Dom means. For a long time, he's felt like he inherited the worst qualities of his parents—the anger, the intense, borderline obsessive drive, but none of the good—their loyalty, their ability to be the perfect partners for each other. But now he sees that he's kept himself shut away from that possibility.

 

Dom watches him closely. "I want you to know I'm extremely pleased with your work, and if you ever need to talk about this stuff, I'm here." 

 

He doesn't anticipate the tightening in his throat, and Jack bows his head right away because he doesn't want to do something really embarrassing, like cry. "Thanks," he murmurs, unsure of what else he can say.

 

"Also, I offered Selena a full-time position as my point woman."

 

Jack's head snaps up, but he's too surprised to speak right away. When the shock passes, he tries to remain analytical and rational. Of course, it makes sense that Dom would want to hire Selena. She did an incredible job organizing and running point on the job, and she fulfils a badly needed role in their office. For the first time ever, he isn't consumed by anger when he thinks of her—not even when he ponders the idea of seeing her every day at work.

 

"I think she'll do a really good job," Jack says, nodding.

 

Cobb continues to watch him closely, maybe searching for a tell, and it occurs to Jack that his uncle would be terrifying to face during a poker game. "And this won't be a problem? I know you two butted heads a little bit."

 

 _Understatement._ Jack smirks. "I'm okay. I promise. I'm not going to bring an uzi in here tomorrow."

 

"I'd at least hope you'd be a bit more creative. Arthur has a grenade launcher he's very proud of, you know," Dom answers, grinning.

 

***

 

Jack emerges from Dom's office ten minutes later.

 

Selena is seated at Rose's desk, a respectful distance from Jack's workspace. They're pretending to be very interested in the act of shredding papers, but Jack knows they've probably only just rushed back to working after desperately trying to eavesdrop on their conversation.

 

He walks back to his desk, smirking. "I'm not fired, in case you're wondering."

 

Rose, who has always been the worst actor, exhales loudly. "Oh, thank God. So what happened?" she asks, setting aside the _very important_ documents that apparently she can't be bothered with anymore.

 

Jack picks up a pile of papers and knocks them on the surface of the desk to get the edges lined up. "None of your business, but everything is fine." He reaches down to turn the shredded back on. "Congrats on the job, Selena."

 

The omega looks startled that Jack is recognising her presence at all, and he feels a deep pang of guilt in response. How much of a terror was he being that this woman, who he barely knows, seems concerned that he might fly off the handle at any second? But in Selena fashion, she recovers quickly. "Thank you, Mr. Eames," she answers primly, but with the added benefit of a shy smile.

 

Jack nods and quickly looks away, because part of him is still terrified of how he might feel about Selena if he gives himself the chance. But at least he knows that's his problem now.

 

He plans to work on it.


	44. Baby yoga

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pat and Max take the kids to baby yoga, followed by the food court incident

Max squats in front of the carriers to make sure the twins are firmly secured beneath their straps. Charles immediately grabs his sleeve, pulling and giggling. “I see you, baby,” Max says, smiling when his son squeals happily. “We’re going to see Pat. Won’t that be fun?”

Pat has invited them all to join him and Abby for baby yoga. Max has never done yoga in his life, so he’s not really sure what it entails, but Pat ensures him it’s not physically demanding, and safe for the babies, so he figures why not? He throws on a pair of sweat pants, an old t-shirt, and carries the babies to the car. When they’re safely anchored in their seats, he drives over to Aldens’.

When he arrives, Pat throws open the door and greets him in his usual whirlwind fashion. “Hey guys! Come in. Let me see these little ones,” he coos, taking Aady’s carrier from Max’s hands. “Oh my goodness. Aren’t you beautiful? Come see your cousin.” Pat has done that lately—referred to Abby and the twins as  _cousins_ , but Max doesn’t mind. He actually thinks it’s kind of sweet. Max obediently follows Pat into the living room and helps him get the babies out of their carriers so they can crawl on the floor with Abby, who is dressed in a cute pink onesie with a little attached skirt, a matching pink bow secured around her blonde head.

"Oh my God. She’s so cute," Max says, grinning up at Pat. "You always dress her so stylishly."

Pat’s standing nearby, hands on his hips as he eyes Max critically. “Speaking of stylish…” he says, gesturing to Max’s t-shirt, featuring the faint outline of a coffee stain.

Max frowns down at his chest, plucking at the grey fabric. “Well, we’re just doing yoga, right?”

He asks this question to Pat’s back because the other omega is already walking from the room and heading down the hallway by the time he cries: “That’s no excuse! There’s always time for fashion. Hasn’t Arthur taught you anything?” When he returns, he’s cradling an armful of clothes and dumps them on the couch. Pat is grinning excitedly, which Max knows can only mean trouble. “You need yoga pants and a form-fitting shirt. No baggy clothes.”

Now that he understands what’s happening, Max eyes Pat’s outfit—tight spandex yoga pants that leave little to the imagination, and a matching blue top that similarly fits his torso. “I don’t know…” he says warily, frowning. “Aren’t there going to be other people in this class?”

Pat waves his hand dismissively as he leafs through the clothing items. “Just other omegas,” he says breezily, then rolls his eyes when he sees Max watching him nervously. “No alphas, hon. Are you kidding me? As if Eddie would let me stick my butt in the air in front of other alphas,” he laughs, tossing Max a pair of black pants and a yellow top. “Try those on. They should fit.”

 _Fit_ , Max learns, is a relative term. Initially, he doesn’t want to even leave the bathroom, but Pat ends up dragging him out. “Oh, you’re being ridiculous!” he cries, “You look amazing. God, look at your butt. I’d kill to be in my twenties again.” All of which makes Max even more self-conscious, and he quickly sits down in the living room to distract himself with the babies. 

"So this isn’t advanced stuff, right?" Max asks, watching as Aady and Abby stare at each other with wide eyes. That’s kind of their jam—staring at each other, mirroring one another’s movements, laughing at nothing, the usual baby repertoire. Charles is being more ambitious, crawling around, and Max frequently has to bring him back to the centre of the room before he can locate any trouble.

"Oh, no, hon. Not at all. It’s very low-key, very safe stuff," Pat says, joining him on the floor to keep the babies flanked on all sides. "It’s just a fun way to bond with the babies."

Max nods slightly. Well, he loves his babies, and bonding is a good thing. Tight garbs aside, maybe this won’t be such a bad experience after all.

The omegas at the yoga studio lose their minds over the babies. “We’ve never had twins in our class before!” a blonde omega named Heather coos. She’s also wearing very tight clothing—as is everyone at  _Baby Om Yoga_ —so, at the very least, Max doesn’t feel self-conscious about his own attire anymore. 

"We’ve never done yoga before," Max explains as Drew, the other omega helping them, hands him a clipboard.

"That’s okay," Drew says, smiling the whole time, "Just fill out these papers, and we’ll help during the class."

***

Pat and Max set up their mats in the far corner of the studio. There are about ten other omega parents in class, but Max is the only parent with two babies, which of course means he’s the centre of attention. Luckily, Pat is a great buffer between the strangers and Max, who is accustomed to being alone with the babies all day, and is initially a little overwhelmed by all the interactions. Pat knows a lot of the other parents, so he chats, and coos over their babies.

Max seizes upon the opportunity to get Charles and Aady situated on the mat in front of him on their backs. The twins are uncharacteristically quiet, gazing around with wide eyes as they kick their little feet. Charles, in particular, seems gobsmacked that he’s around so many other children, and he keeps trying to roll onto his belly so he can crawl over to them and explore.

It’s because he’s distracted with trying to keep Charles on his back that he doesn’t notice Pat rummaging around until the other omega whispers to him: “Psst…Max. Look,” he says, giggling as he points to Abby, who is now sporting a little pink sweatband around her head.”

"Oh my God," Max snorts. "Pat, no. Seriously?"

Pat shrugs. “Like I said. Always time for fashion.

***

As promised, baby yoga is very chill. Drew first instructs the omegas to gently rub their babies’ hands. Max starts with Aady, who seems to like hand massages very much because she keeps offering bright toothless smiles. Then, they’re told to rub the babies’ hips, and legs, in order to encourage good circulation and flexibility.

"Babies are already very flexible," Drew announces from the front of the room, "So this is second nature for them. It’s only when we get older that we lose that flexibility and have to fight to get it back."

Max nods thoughtfully. All of that makes sense. When he rubs Charles’ fat little legs, his son giggles, and Max smiles in return. “That good?” he asks, squeezing his plump foot. 

Next, they’re told to bend the babies’ legs up to their chest, which might be a demanding pose for adults, but Charles and Aady bend in half very easily. 

"How’re they doing?" Pat asks, and when Max looks over he sees Abby kicking her legs excitedly.

"Really good," Max answers, smiling.

Maybe this was a good idea after all.

"Now, as you bend their legs, move forward with them, join the movement," Drew says as he slowly walks between the parents.

Max leans forward and side-to-side as he bends the babies’ legs gently, and soon he feels his own muscles stretching as he helps Charles and Aady. It’s not an intense stretch, but he’s definitely aware of his muscles warming and loosening. The more he moves with the twins, the happier they get. It becomes like a game, rolling Charles’ and Aady’s hips in circles, as they gaze up at him wide wide, curious eyes, and laugh.

Drew smiles at him when he passes by. “They seem like they’re having fun.”

Max grins in return. “Seems like it, yeah.”

***

Afterwards, Pat helps Max pack up his things and get the babies in their carriers. “They did really well,” Pat comments, smiling when Charles grabs at his fingers. “You should do regular yoga with me some time. Really helps with flexibility,” he says, glancing around before he adds, “Makes things better in the bedroom.”

Max blushes hotly and bows his head, pretending to fuss with Aady’s straps. He’s noticed Pat is much more candid about these subjects since hanging around with his father. Arthur tends to have that effect on omegas. “Um…yeah, sure. That could be fun.”

Arthur has been pestering him to get out of the house more, so this could be a good way to do that. 

"But you’ll need yoga clothes," Pat says as he picks up Abby’s carrier. "So you know what that means."

Max stands up slowly, a carrier cradled in each hand. “No,” he pleads, “Pat… _no_.”

"Mhm…yup. Fashion show! We’re going to the mall," Pat declares as he walks toward the studio exit. "Do I need to repeat myself? There’s  _always_ time for fashion. Ask your father, he’ll tell you…” he continues as Max hurries after him.

***

It’s no small feat to shop with three babies, but Pat has a system that makes everything relatively painless. He selects the fitness gear he thinks will look best on Max, thrusts the garments into Max’s arms, and then waits with the babies outside the changing room stall. Max cracks open the door when he’s dressed and self-consciously turns so Pat can see him dressed in the yoga pants.

"Ooo..definitely yes to those," Pat says, surrounded by a semi-circle of baby carriers. "Your booty looks amazing in those."

"Thanks," Max mumbles, quickly closing the door again. He’s still not used to having an omega friend who speaks openly about stuff like this. 

When he opens the dressing room door next, he’s wearing a similar cut of pants, but this time in blue. Pat sighs longingly when he sees him. “This is getting depressing. Everything looks amazing on you,” he mutters, frowning at Max’s figure. “I remember looking like that.”

 

Max rolls his eyes. “You still look twenty.”

Which apparently was the right thing to say because Pat smiles — a bright flash right before Max closes the door again. “Thanks, hon.”

Max smirks as he slips out of the pants and puts them in the  _yes_ pile, along with pretty much everything else he’s tried on throughout the afternoon. It looks as though he’s got himself a whole new workout wardrobe, so now he’ll really have to join Pat for yoga. After dressing, he takes the clothes to the checkout. Max puts everything on his credit card, and then balances the shopping bag in one hand, and Charles’ carrier in the other, while Pat fields holding Aady and Abby.

"They doing okay?" he asks, peering down at Charles’ serene face.

"Yup, but I think Ms. Aady is due for a diaper change," Pat responds, and when Max leans closer, he gets a whiff of a sour odor that indicates Pat is correct in his assessment.

They pit stop in the bathroom so Max can use the changing table attached to the wall to clean up Aady, who looks rather smug about the whole thing, as she smiles and kicks her feet. “That better?” Max asks as he fixes a new diaper around her waist. Aady smiles and answers by reaching up to grab at the collar of his shirt.

"Oh, aren’t they precious?" an older omega asks as she washes her hands. "Are they all yours?"

"These two are mine," Max says, smiling as he points to Aady and then Charles.

Pat has Abby’s carrier resting on the counter, and he gently touches her brow. “She’s mine.”

The older omega is dressed head-to-foot in lilac, the thick white hair on her head piled into a messy bun, her face pink and pleasant. She smiles excitedly at the babies, who gaze back at her with wide eyes. “How wonderful. Enjoy every moment, my loves. The time passes so quickly,” she sighs, flashing another smile at Max and Pat before drying her hands and leaving them in private.

The food court is positioned nearby the bathrooms, fortuitous planning because Max is  _starving_. He never knew shopping could make him so ravenous. Plus, his body is still burning calories like crazy producing milk, and he needs to bottle feed the twins. For all these reasons, he and Pat set up camp at a large table in the centre of the court that provides plenty of room for the carriers and their bags. 

Max flips open his messenger bag and pulls out bottles for the twins. His chest is almost completely flat again, and lately it’s been a taxing process using the breast pump gifted to him by Arthur. Soon, he’ll have to switch to formula, but in the meantime, he’s still feeding the babies as much breast milk as possible. He has a terrible feeling Charles and Aady are going to hate formula, mostly because alphas are spoiled creatures who resent any barrier placed between them and the omegas in their lives.

Max expertly cradles both bottles and feeds the babies at the same time without removing them from their carriers. Pat removes Abby and holds her while he feeds her the bottle, but he continues to watch Max, his expression a mixture of awe and amazement. “Wow, you’ve really got that down, huh?”

"Hm?" Max asks, distracted by the rapid rate Charles is sucking down the milk. He pops the nipple from the baby’s mouth, just so he can breathe for a second and doesn’t make himself sick. "Oh, yeah. Lots of practice," he says, chuckling. "You should see me when they need to be changed at the same time. I’m a machine." Charles whines and Max lets him have the bottle again. "Slow down, little man."

Pat smiles fondly. “Peter was like that too. Like he was racing.”

Max grins, nodding in commiseration. “Alphas,” he chuckles, because he gets it now. He’s part of the special club of omega parents who have birthed alphas—and one day he’ll be part of sect that has raised alphas into (hopefully) healthy adults. It’s nice to know he’s not alone, that others have come before him, and thus far he’s doing everything relatively correctly.

"Alphas," Pat agrees, rolling his eyes.

***

When the babies are fat and happy, Pat goes to get them some thai food. As Max spears the noodles, he keeps glancing to the babies just to make sure they’re still conked out. Only when he’s sure they’re okay does he shovel some food, finally, into his mouth. Tearing his gaze from the babies, he notices Pat is watching him, grinning knowingly. “They make you crazy, don’t they?”

Max sighs, pushing his food around his plate because he knows exactly what Pat means. Ever since having the twins, he thinks about them (and Ravi) every second of the day. It’s strange because his whole world used to be contained within the walls of his childhood home, to the point where Max had nearly had a panic attack the first time he left his community in the passenger seat of the U-Haul Ravi drove to the other side of the country. But now, Max has his own family. Or rather, his family is larger these days, and comprises not only his parents and siblings, but now Ravi and the babies, and even Pat and Eddie. 

If he was really honest with himself, Max would even count Frank as part of the family.

"I love them, but I worry too, you know?" he asks.

Pat smiles slightly, nodding when he glances to Abby, who isn’t asleep, but is sedated nonetheless as she gazes at her feet. “Oh yeah. That’s what having kids is all about. They’re the best thing in the world, but you worry constantly,” he says, twirling his fork around a heap of noodles. “I used to make myself sick worrying about Peter, and I think that drove him nuts,” Pat adds, smirking.

Max pops another forkful of veggies into his mouth and nods as he chews slowly. That story sounds familiar to him. He remembers Arthur trying to control Jack, and how that ultimately blew up in his face. But Max doesn’t know what the alternative is, either. Alphas need structure, or they grow into wild, dangerous creatures. Surely, there must be a middle ground.

"I just hope I don’t mess them up, you know?" he asks softly, frowning at the twins, who look positively angelic in their sleep.

"Oh, hon," Pat sighs sympathetically. "You love them. That’s all you can do."

***

Pat makes a couple runs to the trash to throw out their empty plates, disposable flatware, and cups, while Max begins to gather his things. He drops the empty bottles back into the messenger bag, and then makes sure the babies are safely secured in their seats. The strap on Aady’s chest is a little loose and frayed at the clip, and Max is distracted as he frowns at the fastener, tugging on it to make sure it won’t give way.

Which is why he doesn’t notice the large alpha approaching their table until the man unceremoniously sits down at the head of the table. Max looks up quickly when he hears the metallic feet of the chair dragging against the linoleum floor, and immediately locks gazes with the stranger. The man is big—tall and broad, the classic alpha build. He’s older, which surprises Max. Normally, a bold move like this is the terrain of young, usually inebriated, alphas. But this man is greying slightly at the temples, and he doesn’t look hopped up on any substances, adrenaline, or testosterone.

He looks calm, which is somehow more unnerving.

"Hello," he greets casually, smiling directly at Max.

"Um…" Max answers, glancing towards the recycling area, from where Pat is walking back. The other omega already sees what’s going on, and his brow furrows to reflect Max’s own confusion. "Hi," he finally answers, hoping he can navigate his way out of this strange situation with politeness.

"I’m sorry to interrupt. I don’t want to be rude, but I saw you two, and wanted to introduce myself," he says, flashing a smile. "I’m William," he says, extending a hand towards Max.

Max doesn’t want to touch him, primarily because he doesn’t want another alpha’s scent on him. Luckily, when he glances helplessly at Pat, the other omega is already moving to sit down noisily at the table, stealing William’s attention. “Hello, William. We were just on our way out. Our mates are getting home soon, and we need to go start dinner,” he says.

Pat has been more assertive lately, ever since he started hanging out with Arthur more. Max doubts that’s a coincidence.

William slowly drops his hands and smirks at Pat’s bluntness. Max nervously watches his every move because, unlike his father, Pat won’t know how to handle this if the alpha gets angry or attacks them. “Your mates let you shop on your own? And make you carry your babies?”

Max knows he shouldn’t be surprised that the alpha knows the babies are theirs, and that they’re mated, but he is. Yes, he’s heard tales of alphas who pay no respect to the institutions of marriage and bonds, but Max has never met one of these creatures in the flesh. Some alphas kidnap mated omegas to add them to their harem—it’s rare, and thoroughly against the law, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t still happen all the time anyway. 

"My mate is working," Max mumbles, hoping his icy reaction will scare off the alpha.

But judging by the amused grin on the man’s face, it’s not working. “I don’t believe you’re married. You look too young.”

“ _He is_ ,” Pat answers for him, colder than Max has ever heard him before.

"Well, he’s a fool for letting you walk around unaccompanied. You’re far too lovely," William continues, never looking at Pat, his gaze locked on Max. 

Max swallows thickly and finds he can’t look away from the alpha’s face. This is a skill acquired by older alphas, who have mated many omegas—a subtle kind of hypnosis accomplished with the inflection of one’s voice, minute facial ticks, and commanding body language. The man leans forward slowly. “I want to know your name.”

Pat stands up quickly and grabs the handle of Abby’s carrier. “Have some dignity, for God’s sake. You’re talking to a mated omega. He has two babies.”

When the other omega moves suddenly, the spell is broken, and Max unthinkingly mirrors Pat’s movements. He darts up and grips the handles of the carries, ready to run, but then the alpha stands. He’s huge, towering over Pat and Max, and his simple presence makes them both freeze in their tracks. Max is terrified—his heart hammering in his chest, but all he can do is gaze up at the man and await his fate.

He can’t think, and he certainly can’t speak. It’s different than when he’s with Ravi. With Ravi, Max  _wants_  to submit, but now…he feels paralyzed.

The rational part of his brain knows he should reach into his pocket and call or text Ravi—maybe Jack or Eames. Someone who will fly over to the mall and beat this fool into a coma. But he can’t make his muscles cooperate.

"Tell me your name," the man commands again, stepping closer to Max. 

He’s too afraid to move, but Max is also scared that the man is going to touch the twins. Panic seizes every inch of his being, and Max feels as though he’s watching everything happen from above. This is bad. This is so, so bad. He knows this man is going to hurt him—will tear him away from his children, and he’ll never see Ravi, his brother and sister, or his parents again.

But the strangest part is how his brain acknowledges all this and still refuses him escape—an unfortunate base response disseminated by his ancestors. This is how alphas used to force omegas into submission, and while most alphas have evolved past this crude strategy, it doesn’t mean men don’t still exist who abuse it.

"Hey!" Pat shouts, so loudly both Max, and William, and most of the food court, look over to them. "If I have to repeat myself again, I’m calling my mate, and his mate, and every damn alpha we know to meet you in the parking lot to show you what’s what. You understand me, sir?"

Pat successfully stuns the alpha, who yanked out of his groove, suddenly looks awkward as he glances around the room and calculates his odds. He could still grab Max and make a messy exit, but now the entire room has seen him, and he knows a pack of alphas will be at snapping his heels. Meanwhile, all the shouting has woken up the babies, and Max is dimly aware of the twins making soft fussing noises. When Charles opens his eyes, and sees a large alpha who is not his father looming over him, he whimpers again. The sound prompts him into action. Max picks up the carriers and mumbles, “Leave me alone,” before hurrying from the court. Pat is right behind him, glancing over his shoulder occasionally to make sure the alpha isn’t following them.

It’s only when they’re outside, and halfway across the parking lot, that Max knows they’re in the clear. He bursts out laughing—purely from relief because he’s still terrified. “Where did you learn to talk like that?” he asks in amazement.

Pat’s blue eyes are still wide as he compulsively looks back to the building for the millionth time to make sure the alpha isn’t charging towards them. “Your dad. Where else? Lord, I’m going to faint,” he gasps, fumbling with his keys to unlock the car.

When the babies are secured in their seats, Pat drives out of the lot, still glancing in the rearview mirror to check that they really are going to make a clean escape.

"I can’t believe he was so forward," Max mutters, looking back at Charles and Aady. Charles still looks a little afraid, but he’s not whimpering anymore. Max reaches back so the baby can wrap his fingers around Max’s thumb, which generally calms him.

Pat sighs loudly. “There are alphas like that…” he says, shaking his head. “It’s rare, but..I’ve seen it before.” He glances to Max and adds: “Listen, I wouldn’t tell Ravi about this, if I were you. Otherwise, you’re going to see your husband’s photo on the six o’clock news.”

Max nods slightly because he know what Pat’s alluding to. Ravi wouldn’t rest until he found this man, William, who so badly disrespected his mate, and punished him. Ravi would probably go to the food court every day, just hoping to run into the alpha. Or he’d ask to see the security footage, and hunt the man that way. Regardless of what specific scenario would play out, Max knows in his heart that Ravi would kill the man if ever found him, and Max doesn’t want Ravi to kill for him.

"No, I won’t tell him," he agrees quietly, lips quirking slightly when Charles smiles happily at him and squeezes his thumb. He remembers how Eames nearly beat a man to death for him—how that shroud of darkness never really goes away, even though the man might smile, and laugh, and  _seems normal_. Killing, even nearly killing, changes a man forever. He doesn’t want his babies to sense that wounded undercurrent in their father—in lovely, kind Ravi.  _His_ Ravi. “Can you take me straight home? I can pick up my car from your place tomorrow.” He just wants to go home and cook dinner, and then hug Ravi for a long time when he comes home.

Pat smiles slowly, probably because he already knows what Max is thinking and feeling. They’ve been on the same wavelength like that lately. And even though they’ve just endured a tense situation together, it’s nice to know Pat has his back.

"You got it," he says.


	45. Ravi meets the yoga pants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ravi meets the yoga pants

Once the babies are in their playpen, Max hurries into the kitchen and begins preparing dinner. Shopping time, it turns out, is not normal time, and somehow the afternoon has already flown by. Ravi will be home in an hour, so Max does the abbreviated version of one of his mate’s favorite dishes: pork chops with mashed potatoes. Eames would call it pedestrian, but it’s a good, hardy meal, and it fills the void that is Ravi’s bottomless stomach, so Max decides it’ll do. He also defrosts some veggies from the freezer, just to give the plate some colourful, edible garnish, and mumbles beneath his breath, “Sorrysorrysorry,” because he can imagine the disappointment on his parents’ face if they simply knew Max bought frozen veggies, let alone served them during mealtimes.

One day, when the babies are grown, he won’t serve frozen veggies. Maybe he’ll even have a garden in the backyard, like Pat does, but until then he has to be efficient with meal preparations. 

He turns the burner onto its lowest setting, searing the pork chops, and then tends to the babies. Max unfreezes some milk, and when it’s the correct temperature, pours it into bottles. They’re running low on frozen pouches, but when Max touches his chest, he frowns deeply. His chest is completely flat again, and it really doesn’t feel like he’s going to be able to squeeze another drop of milk from his breasts, though he winces when he touches by his right nipple. His chest might be flat, but it’s also very tender, and he’s not sure why.

After feeding the babies, Max puts them down for their nap in the nursery. Charles is all amped up from the day’s events—first meeting other babies in yoga, and then seeing a strange alpha in the food court, so he whines and reaches for Max the second he’s placed on his back. Max hushes him, and hums softly while stroking his brow, which usually does the trick, and today is no exception. Charles fights it, but eventually his eyelids grow heavy, and he slips into slumber. Aady, the beautiful angel, is already asleep, and Max watches them for a couple seconds just to make sure they’re all right, then leaves to monitor dinner.

He switches on the baby monitor in the kitchen in case the babies wake up and start crying, and then spend a couple minutes flipping the pork chops and stirring the mashed potatoes. At this point, dinner is on autopilot, and Max gets bored standing around, so he decides to try on one of the outfits he purchased at the mall. He changes right in the living room because he doesn’t want to leave dinner unsupervised. Max slips into a pair of black yoga pants and a purple top that clings to his chest and biceps, and he frowns down at the spandex fabric, plucking at it to see if it will give a little bit. It doesn’t. 

Max turns to the side and tries to see his reflection in the television screen. Without Pat around to utter positive affirmations, Max begins to wonder if the outfit is too much. It certainly leaves little to the imagination. He turns a little more and tries to see his ass in the reflection, and while he can’t see many details, he does notice the way his butt — or his  _booty_ , as Pat calls it — pops out at a dramatic angle. “Oh boy,” he sighs warily, right before Charles’ distressed little cry fills the baby monitor.

When he hurries into the nursery, Charles is in full fusspot mode, kicking and squealing as loud as he can, which of course wakes his sister too. “Okay, shh, okay,” Max soothes, picking him up and resting Charles against his shoulder so he can rub his back. He’s hoping it’s gas, but more likely Charles is too energised from his big day out to sleep, plus he knows Ravi gets home soon. Aady whimpers, and Max extends a hand into her crib to rub her chest and belly comfortingly. “I know, sweetheart. I know,” he says sympathetically as she whines.

He’s afraid both babies are about to launch into tantrums, but then the front door opens, and Charles immediately stops crying. 

"Priya?" Ravi calls from the front door.

Max smiles as he watches Charles’ face: red, tear-streaked, eyes wide because he hears his father’s voice. “In here!” he calls. “Someone is very excited to see you. Two someones, actually,” he adds, watching Aady as she desperately tries to rock onto her belly so she can crawl over to the edge of the crib and see Ravi.

He’s not prepared for the enormous surge of relief and affection he feels when his mate appears in the nursery doorway. Max walks right over to him and Ravi tenderly cups his face before kissing him once, then again, and Max leans against him afterwards (as best he can while holding Charles), so he can inhale the alpha’s scent. Instantly, he feels better, lulled into a serene state by Ravi’s smell, his touch and presence.

"You okay?" Ravi asks softly as he takes Charles from Max.

"Mhm.." Max answers, smiling. "Just a long day. I missed you."

"I missed you too," Ravi answers thoughtfully, cradling Charles, who is already reaching up to grab his father’s collar, or glasses, or hair—really anything he can use as an anchor in order to monopolise Ravi’s attention. He’s about to walk over to the crib to see his daughter when he notices Max’s new outfit—probably because he sees the back of the omega as he’s making his way out of the nursery to go tend to dinner. "Priya, what are you wearing?" he asks, not in the annoyed way Max might have expected, but rather in a gobsmacked fashion.

The only other time Max saw Ravi look that awed was when the doctor told him they were having twins.

Max smirks and shrugs slightly. “Just clothes for yoga,” he says casually as he saunters from the room and up the hallway, towards the kitchen.

Ravi follows him like he’s on the other end of a leash, still cradling Charles, but Max isn’t really sure his mate knows he’s still holding the baby, or is standing in his home, or what year it is. Max pauses in the kitchen and nods at Charles. “You’re still holding your son. Go say hi to Aady,” he says, smiling wide enough to display his dimples, which upon reflection, isn’t doing anything to alleviate Ravi’s stunned state.

The alpha blinks and looks down at Charles. “Uh, right,” he mumbles, giving Charles a finger to latch on to, which seems to please the baby because he giggles. Ravi looks back to Max, brow furrowed. “Don’t change out of that,” he instructs simply, and then leaves the room.

And Max might have felt smug, if his mate’s words hadn’t sent an electric thrill through him instead.

***

Ravi plays with the babies until they’re tuckered out, and dinner is ready. As Max plates the food, the alpha wanders back into the kitchen. Ravi has shed his jacket, and rolled up his shirt sleeves, but he doesn’t look exhausted as he so often does after a long day of work. Instead, he watches Max closely as he walks around the kitchen, getting everything ready. 

"You look great," Ravi comments, somewhat superfluously because Max already hashed out his opinion when his jaw nearly hit the floor.

Max smiles softly, nonetheless. “Thanks,” he says, placing the plate of food in front of Ravi, who is still watching him, and not the mouthwatering pork chop placed in front of him.

Max sits beside him, picks up his silverware, and begins cutting the meat into small bites. He’s not very hungry, but knows Ravi is always ravenous when he gets home, so he’s willing to pretend for his mate’s sake. However, he quickly realizes Ravi isn’t eating either, but rather pushing his food around his plate as he continuously glances at Max. 

"Not hungry?" Max asks breezily, as Ravi asks at the same time:

"So you bought that today?"

Max grins slowly. “You really like it, huh?”

Now that they’re not acting anymore, Ravi sets down his knife and fork, and sighs heavily as he leans back in his chair. “How could I not? You look amazing, priya.”

His face warms at the compliment, and Max sets down his silverware as well, though he gestures to his mate’s plate. “You should eat. You’ll be starving later.”

But dinner is clearly already over because Ravi reaches for him and gently grips his wrist as he pulls Max forward out of his chair. “I don’t want to eat,” he says, still pulling until Max is seated on his lap. “I want to say hello to my beautiful mate,” he adds, whispering into the crook of Max’s neck. 

Seated sidesaddle, Max wraps his arms around Ravi’s neck and sighs happily. For the first time in hours, he feels the muscles in his back relaxing, and he knows it’s because Ravi is touching and holding him. He whimpers when Ravi finally kisses him, Max’s hands sliding around until he can grip the fabric of his collar. He unbuttons the top two buttons of Ravi’s shirt so his fingers can slip inside, groping at the alpha’s firm chest.

Lately, they have sex whenever they can, but there’s never enough time for these opportunities. They have to hurry because they’re only granted narrow windows—when the babies are asleep, if Frank is over babysitting them. Ravi understands this, which is why he pats Max’s rear and quickly separates from him. “Bedroom,” he says, and Max nods dumbly, standing and practically running to their room. Max climbs onto their bed and hooks his fingers under the hem of the shirt, and is preparing to yank it over his head when Ravi’s voice tells him to stop. “Leave that on, priya,” he instructs.

Max is kneeling on the mattress, and frowns when he looks at Ravi over his shoulder. 

"Don’t pout," Ravi chuckles, unbuttoning his shirt, which distracts Max enough that he stops frowning. He watches the alpha slip off his dress shirt before Max quirks a brow challengingly. 

"Okay," he sighs, moving onto all fours and arching his back, smirking when Ravi audibly inhales at the sight. Max knows what this position ordinarily does to his mate, let alone the sight of him in pants that exaggerate his physique. "I won’t pout," Max adds, slowly descending onto his forearms, so his rear is thrust high into the air.

"Oh my God," Ravi groans, smoothing his palms over the globes of Max’s ass.

The touch instantly silences Max, who bites down on his lower lip to keep from making any embarrassing noises. But then Ravi grips his rear, massaging and groping before he stops suddenly, and Max is about to ask him what’s wrong when the alpha smacks his ass—not hard, but just enough to jar his body and to send a thrill up his fine. “Ravi,” Max gasps, feeling the familiar pulse come to life deep inside him. He’s going to be wet in a matter of seconds.

But then, Ravi moves away from him, and Max is so stunned that he collapses on his side. He must look horrified because Ravi chuckles at him as he walks to the master bathroom. “Just a second, priya. I’ll be right back.”

Max rolls onto his back and groans helplessly, hand flying up to touch his brow, which is burning hot. “Don’t…not now,” he moans, a free hand rubbing between his legs, where his cock is hard and straining against the thin fabric of the pants. Sometimes, Ravi likes to get him worked up and then leave for a moment or two, just to drive Max into a further state of frenzy. It should be annoying, but Max finds it unbelievably hot. It goes like this: he lays on the bed, wet and writhing, begging and clawing until Ravi finally comes back and fucks him.

It’s exquisite.

When the sound of water emanates from the bathroom, Max picks up his head and scowls at the open door. “Are you  _brushing your teeth_?” he asks incredulously. Ravi doesn’t answer — how could he with a brush wedged in his mouth? — but Max hears the telltale signs that indicate, yes, that’s exactly what his mate is doing. He groans miserably and throws a minor fit, slapping his hand against the mattress and sucking his teeth, just to show how annoyed he really is.

Ravi ignores him.

In retaliation, Max yanks the shirt over his head and throws it in the direction of the bathroom, just to get Ravi’s attention. “I’m starting without you,” he threatens, rolling onto his belly again and sticking his rear in the air. When he moves, his nipples graze the comforter, and he inhales sharply, the same overly sensitive sensation exploding across his chest. That’s when Ravi turns off the water in the bathroom and Max smirks victoriously. It is, of course, a bluff, but Ravi obviously doesn’t want to take that chance.

"So impatient," the alpha remarks from behind him, and Max again bows his back, sighing in anticipation when he senses Ravi standing right beside the bed. The warm, large hands return, gripping his rear, squeezing, pulling and pushing until Max is panting softly into his forearms. He moans miserably when Ravi releases him, but at least this time the touch returns a moment later, carefully gripping his jaw and angling his face upwards so Ravi can kiss him. His mouth is cool, and minty, and Max sighs happily into the embrace.

"I love you," Max whispers when they separate.

Ravi smiles, the expression bright against his handsome face, now sans glasses. “I love you too, priya,” he answers affectionately, right before disappearing again behind Max. Ravi touches him a long time, alternating between groping his ass and soothingly stroking his spine. “You look incredible,” he murmurs worshipfully, and Max moans softly in response. All the touching has made him hard and wet, and while he appreciates the effect the pants are having on his mate, he wants to move things along.

"Ravi…" he breathes, hoping the alpha will understand what he’s asking for and have mercy on him.

The begging finally works. Max has a pavlovian reaction to the sound of Ravi unbuckling his pants, arching his back a little more to present himself. His mate grips the waistband of his pants and yanks them down roughly so they bunch around Max’s knees, and the omega strains to part his knees a little more to accommodate Ravi. The alpha touches his entrance, smearing the moisture around a bit, and then dipping his thumb inside.

"Ah, fuck," Max gasps, thrusting back, desperate for more. They really don’t have time for foreplay, and Max would tell Ravi that if he could make his tongue work.

He’s ready. He wants to tell Ravi he’s ready, and he needs him, but he can’t. Instead, Max reaches between his legs and starts stoking his cock slowly. 

Ravi finally grips his waist and presses the head of his length against Max, pushing inside. He will never, ever get used to this part. Every time Ravi claims him is unbelievably intense, and leaves Max breathless. He pinches his eyes closed, mouth falling agape in a silent cry as the alpha thrusts into him. Max claws at the comforter, gasping for breath because his lungs suddenly can’t get enough oxygen into them.

Ravi doesn’t give him a chance to adjust, thrusting roughly in a way that Max knows is going to make him come hard, and very soon. Part of him wishes he could see Ravi, but a deeper, more primal part of him likes being taken like this. When he braces his arms under him, Ravi pauses to grip the back of his neck and presses him back down into the mattress. “Down,” he instructs, and Max moans softly. He loves it when Ravi makes him submit because Max  _wants_ to submit to him.

They don’t talk after that beyond curt monosyllabic instructions, which is a good thing because Max couldn’t even if he tried. Ravi fucks him so hard that every thrust knocks the air from Max’s lungs, but when he manages to bark or cry something, it’s always a plea for  _more_. He wants more. He wants to feel Ravi expanding inside him before he comes. Ravi’s hips slap against his ass, and the collision is going to leave bruises, but Max is glad. He hopes Ravi marks him any way he can because he doesn’t want any other alpha to think they can have him.

He belongs to Ravi.

"I’m gonna…oh, fuck. Ravi…" he warns, seconds before coming hard against the bed.

His orgasm releases another wave of moisture, and Ravi moans, gripping Max’s waist as he thrusts shallowly, and Max knows his mate is looking at him—at how wet Ravi has made him. But his reverence is short-lived. The alpha recovers, hands vise-like, always marking, as he thrusts sharply into Max. He’s being loud—too loud, he’s going to wake the babies, but Max can’t stop himself.

He collapses against the bed, and Ravi lays atop him, never pausing the undulation of his hips. He covers Max entirely, and the omega moans happily, closing his eyes and inhaling the musk of his mate. Ravi strokes his hair back, kissing the side of his face as he tells him how well he’s doing, and Max’s chest swells with pride. Ravi’s thrusts grow desperate, the keen of his voice warning that he’s about to come.

Max wants it. He wants it so badly that he focuses on squeezing his internal muscles, milking and encouraging until the alpha thrusts one last time and collapses atop him. Ravi’s body is a furnace against his back—muscular, powerful, but also damp with perspiration and utterly spent. The knot grows right on cue, and Max moans softly, revelling in the stretch—at the sensation of being completely full.

When Ravi comes, Max gasps and turns a little so his mate can kiss him. They kiss lazily, Max parting occasionally to moan, or clench his eyes shut as he breathes through the worst of the knotting. His lower legs are still tangled in the pants, which makes rolling over tricky, but Ravi manages to arrange them on their sides so Max can ride out the rest of his orgasm in a more comfortable position. 

The alpha kisses the back of his neck, and his shoulder tenderly until Max has calmed down enough that he can speak. “I’m wearing these pants…every day,” he gasps, smirking when Ravi playfully nip at his earlobe.

"Please do," the alpha answers, equally breathless.

***

Frank eyes him suspiciously as Max walks around the house, cleaning and humming peppily. “You’re in a good mood,” he observes from his place in the centre of the living room where he’s been playing with the twins.

"Yup," Max answers vaguely, plucking a porcelain figurine off the bookshelf to dust the surface underneath.

Frank watches him warily, like he’s a time bomb. “Do I want to know why?” he asks, cradling Aady, as she bunches the tip of his tie in her little fist.

"No," Max remarks, grinning. "You probably don’t."

***

Max busts out the puzzle with the really large pieces in the shapes of animals that Aady loves, not because she can actually work out how to finish the puzzle, but because she likes destroying the finished puzzle and then gazing at the photos of the various critters.

She’s currently wreaking havoc as Charles watches in awe of his sister’s unquenchable desire for chaos when Max leaps up from the couch, sprints to the bathroom, and barely makes it in time to vomit into the toilet. 

"Woah!" Frank cries from the living room, overhearing the sound of retching. "You okay, champ?"

Max emerges a minute later, smiling weakly and sheepishly. The babies are both looking at him warily, like they’re expecting their father to explode at any moment. “Yeah, I’m okay. I’m okay, guys,” he says to the twins. “Must have eaten something bad last night.”

Frank eyes him thoughtfully for a second. “Nah, you’re pregnant.”

Max blinks slowly at him. “I’m…what? Why do you say that?”

The alpha rolls his eyes like Max has just asked him a painfully stupid question. “Because I know a pregnant omega when I see one, okay?” And when that earns a curious look from Max, he adds: “Just..don’t ask. But you’re pregnant. I’d bet money on it.”

Moving to the couch, Max sits down quickly. All of a sudden, he feels very lightheaded. But no, he tells himself. Frank is an idiot. He sounds confident when he says these things, but he has absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.  _Frank is an idiot_ , he stubbornly repeats. “Go get me a test,” he rasps.

"Uh, excuse you very much," Frank says, holding up Aady. "I’m watching _your offspring_. Remember?”

“ _Frank_ ,” Max hisses in a way that immediately makes Frank drop the sarcastic, detached act. “Go. Get. Me. A. Test.”

***

Frank returns half an hour later with a pregnancy test that Max rips out of his hand, and carries to the bathroom. He’s going to pee on this thing, it’s going to be negative, and he’s going to stick the urine-soaked strip in Frank’s stupid face. That’s what he’s going to do, Max tells himself as he nervously paces the length of the bathroom, glancing at the test every three seconds.

The new tests take hardly any time at all— just under a minute, and when the little blue cross appears on the screen, Max stares at it for a while. Then he picks it up and compares it to the picture on the box five…or twenty times.

He wanders from the bathroom, still holding the test, face pale and eyes huge. “I’m pregnant,” he says to no one in particular.

"I told you!" Frank replies sunnily, without missing a beat.

***

It’s not that Max isn’t excited to be pregnant. He just doesn’t know how he’s going to manage having another infant when the twins are still so little. Charles and Aady can pull themselves into standing positions, and have even begun to take their first tentative steps (with the help of Ravi or Max holding their hands). But they’re still totally dependent on them, and now there’s going to be another baby.

But he tells himself Arthur and Eames did it, and so he can do it too. 

Of course, he’s also nervous because Max doesn’t know how Ravi is going to react. His mate has a good job at a chemical lab, but their monthly budget is still fairly tight with two children, so Max isn’t quite sure what they’re going to do with  _three_ babies. He tries not to get too far ahead of himself as he prepares dinner, and he tells himself that Ravi is his mate, and loves him and the twins, so they’ll make it work.

When Ravi comes home from work, Max greets him at the door, taking his messenger bag and jacket before kissing him. “Smells good,” Ravi comments, smiling in the direction of the kitchen.

It takes Max a moment to remember what he made them. “Oh…yeah. Pot roast,” he says, smiling faintly. Max is aware he’s still pale, even though he’s spent the better part of an hour preparing dinner, and his cheeks should be flushed from exertion. He also knows he has can only buy a few minutes before his mate inevitably notices something is wrong.

In fact, it only takes Ravi until he’s seated at the kitchen table, watching Max to realise something is amiss. “You all right, priya?” he asks, frowning in concern. “You look a little pale, love.”

Max knows the jig is up. He sets down the large wooden spoon he was using to stir the veggies as they thaw, and sighs heavily. But when he turns to face Ravi, Charles’ voice suddenly fills the baby monitor resting on the counter. “I’ll get him,” Ravi volunteers, and then he’s gone, along with Max’s opportunity to share the news.

There’s no way he’s going to be able to make it through dinner without telling Ravi, so he sets the burners on low, and walks to the nursery. When he reaches the doorway, he sees Ravi holding Charles, who is positively glowing now that he’s secured the attention of his father. The baby keeps thrusting his little fist towards Ravi’s mouth, hinting until his father grips his little wrist and pretends to eat his fingers, which is when Charles erupts in laughter. This is a strange game he and Ravi have where his father pretends to eat various appendages, and Charles, for some reason, adores it.

Max smiles slowly as he leans against the doorway and watches his family. Ravi is a wonderful mate and father, and Max suddenly can’t remember why he was so nervous to share the news with him. So when Ravi looks over to him, Max blurts out: “I’m pregnant.”

It’s an unfair time to drop the bomb, and Ravi looks as though he doesn’t know what to do with himself for a moment, but then finally places Charles back in the crib and walks over to Max. He gently cups Max’s face and gazes at him for a few moments. “Really?” he asks, voice hushed.

Max’s smile widens, tears of happiness (and relief) flooding his eyes. “Yeah,” he whispers.

When Ravi kisses him, Max knows everything will be all right. His mate is happy, and Max is as well. All he wants is to be married to Ravi, give him children, and do his best to raise them. He was a fool for ever doubting how Ravi would respond. Of course he’s happy. 

Their little family is growing.

Afterwards, they eat dinner slowly and discuss various logistical details of Max being pregnant again. It goes without question that they’ll need Frank to be around more, especially when Max will be dealing with a newborn baby. Someone will need to keep an eye on the twins. Max says he’s sure Arthur and Eames will be thrilled to help out, as well, since they’ve been angling for more baby time anyway. 

Then they inevitably reach the topic of money.

Max pokes at his food for a bit before he cautiously remarks: “My dad says Mr. Saito left me a trust fund. I could use that money.”

It’s a risky move, and Max isn’t surprised when Ravi shakes his head. “No, priya. We’re saving that money for the kids.” Like most of his kind, Ravi is very proud and doesn’t want to rely on the generosity of another alpha. He wants to provide for his own children. “I’ve been meaning to bring something up to you,” he says, setting down his knife and fork. Max does the same and turns to face him because his tone indicates this is a serious topic. “Cobb said I could come over and work in the dreamshare lab—” he says, immediately rushing to finish when Max’s eyes widen, “I would never go under, and it’s all legal business, priya. Plus, it pays three times my current salary.”

Max opens his mouth to respond, but then Ravi mentions the parts about never going under…and then the money. His jaw slowly closes. Gazing down at his hands, Max ponders Uncle Dom’s offer. The only reservations Max had about Ravi working in dreamshare concerned danger, and if Ravi isn’t hooking up to the machine, and all the work is legal, there’s no chance of him being hurt or arrested. 

"You won’t ever go under?" he asks softly.

Ravi rests his hand atop Max’s on the tabletop. “Never, priya. You have my word.”

Max nods slowly because he believes Ravi. Plus, he’ll have Uncle Dom and Rose and Jack to report back if he is ever tempted into dreaming again. “Okay,” he finally says. How could he not agree? The work is safe, and will pay enough to support the new baby. 

"Okay?" Ravi asks, smiling slowly.

Max laughs when the alpha pulls him onto his lap, and he smiles as they kiss excitedly. “Okay,” he whispers again.

 


	46. Valentine's Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Very late Valentine's Day fic. Smut, followed by actual plot.

Friday is Valentine’s Day and Eames hasn’t gotten Arthur a present. Truthfully, he’s drawing a complete blank when it comes to securing a gift for his mate, even though they’ve been married for decades, and even though he knows Arthur better than anyone on earth. It’s just bloody difficult to outdo his feats of the past: whisking Arthur away to Paris, the year with the gold watch, that other time he took him to a dance club and fucked his brains out in a back room.

Good times. But this year, Eames can’t think of a thing, and he’s really beginning to sweat bullets over the whole thing, until lovely Arthur flops down beside him on the couch one day, and runs his fingers through Eames’ hair, sighing: “Can we have a truce this year for Valentine’s Day? I haven’t had time to plan anything.”

Eames is very proud of the poker face he levels at his mate. “If that’s what you want, darling.” Then he widens his eyes innocently and leans into Arthur’s touch so the omega smiles and leans forward to kiss him.

He thinks he’s off the hook until Wednesday rolls around, and the whole lack of a present thing begins to really nag at him. Yes, Arthur specifically said he didn’t want to do gifts this year, but what kind of an alpha doesn’t get  _anything_  on the day devoted to all things love and passion? All day, Arthur is going to see other omegas with flowers and pink stuffed bears, and all he’ll have to show for years and years of being a perfect mate and father is Eames sitting around, being useless. 

No, that won’t do at all.

He has an epiphany that afternoon while driving back from the grocery store when he spots a gun store.  _Ah-ha_. Arthur has been salivating over the new Glock models in the latest issue of  _Guns & Ammo_—the Glock 41 longslide .45. Arthur mentioned something about a “maximised sight radius,” and “improved weight distribution,” and “refined balance,” but Eames hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

Once he’s passed the background check, he is the proud owner of the new model, and cradles the empty gun, aiming it at the wall. He hums thoughtfully because it really does feel good in his hands. Arthur is right. The weight distribution is very nice. 

"Do you gift wrap?" he asks, in all seriousness.

The bearded man wearing the camo hat behind the counter stares blankly at him.

Eames nods, tight-lipped. “Fair enough.”

***

He picks up the little white bag with the red hearts, some red tissue paper, and a red ribbon on the way home. Eames thinks he’s a master of comedy, tying a bow around the glock and hiding it in a nest of tissue paper inside the bag. When he gets home, he hides the bag in the bedroom, and then tries to act normal the rest of the day, but in all likelihood he’s carrying on like a smug bastard.

Arthur is going to go mental.

Even though they’ve made a Valentine’s truce (that Eames has already broken), they agree that dinner is permissible. As soon as Arthur emerges from the bedroom, dressed in a stunning grey wool Burberry suit, Eames knows he was right to break their pact. It would be criminal not to spoil rotten an omega like Arthur. 

"Gorgeous," Eames remarks, adjusting the cuffs of a suit he happens to know Arthur appreciates  _very_  much.

"Thank you," Arthur says, smiling brightly and kissing him softly. "You look great."

"This old thing?" Eames asks cheekily and Arthur laughs in response.

***

Dinner is wonderful, as it always is when he’s with Arthur and they’re at a restaurant where Eames has already prescreened the menu and given his stamp of approval. Eames starts things off by ordering a house red. He toasts Arthur, glass raised in the air, and the omega looks a big sheepish, but Eames can tell he’s secretly pleased by the attention.

"To you, darling. You’re a marvel, and I still can’t believe you settled for a scoundrel like me. You’ve been a perfect mate and father, and there’s no need for gifts this year because you’ve given me the greatest gift imaginable: three beautiful children and decades of happiness."

Arthur is quiet for a beat, and Eames grins victoriously when he sees his big brown eyes shining with tears. “Eames, you asshole,” he laughs, setting down his glass so he can dab at the corner of his eye. “Jesus, you can’t just drop that on me. Holy shit.”

Eames grins, taking a long sip of the wine, and then gingerly sets it back down on the table. “That’s not all.  _I_ got you a present,” he adds smugly. Perhaps it’s risky to open dinner with the confession, but he assumes Arthur wouldn’t be so gauche as to kill him in public.

But he should have known not to underestimate the only man he’s ever considered his true equal.

Arthur smirks. “Me too.”

***

"Don’t take your suit off," Arthur instructs once they’re back home and standing in the bedroom. 

Eames doesn’t reply, but Arthur grins because he knows the alpha will comply with the order, and casts a sexy, coy little look over his shoulder before he disappears in the bathroom. When the door shuts, Eames exhales and loosens his tie a bit (he doesn’t think that goes against Arthur’s instructions), and then sits down in a chair located in the corner of the room. It gives him an advantageous view of the bathroom door for when Arthur eventually emerges.

Then he waits for what feels like ages.

Occasionally, he hears rustling behind the door and perks up a bit because he thinks Arthur is about to walk out. But then…no. The door remains shut, and Eames deflates in the chair. He briefly wonders if Arthur has gone out the bathroom window, just to punish Eames for breaking the truce, and he’s just beginning to wonder if he should go canvas the backyard to make sure Arthur isn’t hiding behind a bush, when the door finally opens.

The bedroom dimmer lights are set to low, so the primary source of light comes from the bathroom, backlighting Arthur who is now wearing a red teddy. Eames audibly inhales, holding the breath a second, before he declares on the exhale: “ _Darling_.” Arthur has really outdone himself this time. He smiles brightly, probably because Eames looks like he’s just been visited by a heavenly angel, and takes a couple steps forward before he turns slowly—all for Eames’ benefit.

"You like it?" he asks, pausing when his back is facing the alpha to show off the matching thong.

"You’re beautiful," Eames answers sincerely, gaze lingering on Arthur’s nether regions. After all these years, the omega still has an incredible ass. "Come here."

Arthur smiles sweetly and saunters towards him, the skirt billowing out around his thighs. “I make you happy, daddy?” he asks, already slipping into character. Arthur is, by far, the kinkiest partner Eames has ever had, which makes sense because in dreamshare the omega always pushed him to extremes. Why shouldn’t that natural inclination extend to their bedroom antics? Eames loves it. He never feels silly or self-conscious. When he’s in a scene with Arthur, he invests every fibre of his being to make it good for them both.

"So happy," he replies, attention fixed to the spot where the hem of the teddy touches Arthur’s thighs. When his mate is close enough, he reaches forward and hooks his hands around the back of his legs, pulling him close, and pushing up the skirt to cup his rear. "You look so pretty, kitten," he murmurs, a hand sliding around Arthur’s waist to nudge up the teddy so he can press a kiss to the omega’s flat stomach.

Arthur exhales happily, running his fingers through Eames’ hair, working it free from the gel. “I was bad, though,” he continues, sticking to their usual script. “I lied…said I wouldn’t get you a gift.”

Eames leans back a bit so he can nod a little—a grave expression overtaking his face. “That’s true,” he says, standing up. “Go wait on the bed for your punishment.” Before he slips away, Eames drags him closer for a brief kiss, then pats his rear, sending him on his way.

He squares his shoulders, watching as Arthur makes a show of walking to the edge of the bed and bending over it slowly. He pulls up the skirt to reveal his ass, and then lowers onto his forearms, his lower back arched beautifully. Arthur gazes back at him over his shoulder, and Eames is very careful to remain in character. He knows Arthur likes him like this: authoritative, wearing the suit, using a commanding tone, and Eames enjoys playing the part as well—it nicely compliments other base alpha instincts he possesses: the urge to dominate, to have a lovely omega like Arthur submit to him.

Eames takes his time walking over to Arthur, allowing a natural tension to build before he finally touches him. Arthur is already worked up, trembling the second Eames touches his rear—just exploring at first before he hooks his thumbs under the elastic of the thong and tugs it downwards. When it falls around Arthur’s ankles, Eames reaches down to tap the omega’s calf, and Arthur obediently lifts one foot, and then the other, so Eames can pick it up. “Such pretty panties,” he comments, burying his nose and mouth against the fabric briefly so he can breathe in his mate’s scent. Arthur is already wet, the fabric soaked with his pheromones. He tosses the thong towards the door so Arthur can see the narrowly cut fabric flitter away from his vantage point. “But you don’t need them anymore.”

"No?" Arthur asks, his voice timid and trembling, and Eames feels a little heady because he doesn’t think it’s entirely an act.

Eames runs his hands up and down Arthur’s spine. “No, baby,” he murmurs, releasing the omega so he can unhook his belt and slide it out of the loops. “Daddy’s going to make you feel good, but first I have to punish you for lying.” He carefully watches the back of Arthur’s dark head, waiting for him to shoot Eames a scowl or eye roll to indicate he’s taking things too far, but instead the omega remains slumped onto his forearms.

"Okay. I’m sorry, daddy," he exhales breathily.

Eames folds the belt in half in his hand and affectionately caresses Arthur’s rear. “I know, kitten, but this is for your own good,” he says right before striking the side of Arthur’s ass cheek with the belt. The leather claps loudly against his rear, even though Eames hasn’t put much force behind it. Arthur gasps, lurching forward, and Eames freezes. He waits, counting silently in his mind to three, and when Arthur doesn’t tell him to stop, he spanks him again—this time directly across his rear, the belt leaving a faint red mark that Eames strokes in apology. 

Arthur moans throatily, squirming against the bed, but never tells Eames to knock it off. He uses the belt a half dozen more times, a bit more firmly, which Arthur seems to love because he’s groaning and groping at the sheets, nearly yanking the comforter entirely from the bed. Arthur never tells him to stop, but Eames drops the belt to the floor and unfastens his trousers. He doesn’t want to do any more foreplay, his cock already rock hard and straining against the front of his boxer briefs from watching Arthur carry on.

"Sorry…I’m sorry, daddy," Arthur babbles, his pert rear lined with pink marks from the belt, but he’s spreading his legs even as he apologises, and Eames can see rivulets of moisture running down his thighs.

"You’re doing so well," Eames encourages. "Just have to do one more thing to apologize to me," he adds, inwardly congratulating himself for stringing together a coherent thought.

"Mm…okay," Arthur hums when the alpha grabs his waist.

***

Eames grips the back of the teddy, using it as an anchor as he fucks Arthur hard. The omega’s back is arched, his head tilted back as he cries towards the ceiling. It’s good— _really_ good, even though Arthur’s gushing all over his suit, ruining the fabric. Eames doesn’t care. He likes being fully dressed like this as Arthur writhes at the end of his dick, almost entirely naked, gorgeous, and ruined. He’s sweating buckets, his undershirt sticking to his skin, the perspiration nearly soaking his exterior jacket too, but he doesn’t slow his thrusts.

"I’m sorry!" Arthur cries, thrashing on the bed until Eames catches on and slumps forward to pin down his wrists to the bed. Even though he’s clad in multiple layers, Eames can feel the heat radiating through the back of the teddy, and sees the mesh sticking to patches of Arthur’s skin where he’s sweating. His palm slides up the omega’s back to the wet, slightly curling hairs at the bottom of his skull. He grasps the nape of Arthur’s neck tightly. "Ah!" Arthur gasps when Eames resumes his brutal pace. "Daddy, I’m sorry! Stop!" he pleads, which Eames knows means he bloody well  _not_ stop, or Arthur is going to murder him. The omega’s words means he’s close to coming, so Eames bucks hard atop him.

"I’ll stop…when you come," he pants, nipping at the back of Arthur’s neck. "Come for daddy," he grunts.

And Arthur is going to. He’s so, so close.

But then Frank bursts into the room.

There’s a ridiculous moment where they’re all so shocked that no one moves. Eames is still sprawled atop Arthur, almost covering him entirely, but of course not enough to conceal what they’re doing, since Arthur is very obviously wearing a frilly little negligee. And Frank is a deer frozen in the headlights, mouth agape, eyes bugging from his head.

It’s no more than five seconds that they’re like that—frozen in horror.

Then Eames moves. He quickly pulls out of Arthur and tucks his dick away, fastening the pants, and Frank must sense his life is about to come to a tragic end because he back-pedals so fast he falls backwards onto the floor. “Wait!” he cries, comically (or it  _would_ be funny, if Eames wasn’t seeing red) kicking out his legs so he can scramble back towards the door, desperately trying to get his feet under him.

He’s somewhat aware of Arthur’s voice, shouting something: maybe at him, maybe at Frank, he’s not sure.

Eames pauses only to find the bag he tucked away behind the chair and pulls out the Glock. Then he stalks towards Frank, who emits a high-pitched yelp and sprints from the bedroom. “Holy fucking shit, Eames! It was an accident!” he yells, darting around the living room as he searches for cover. He ends up crouched partially behind the couch. When Eames simply walks around the couch towards him, Frank falls to his hands and knees and begins speed crawling away from him. “I swear to God, man! I heard Arthur yelling and I thought someone fucking broke in and was attacking him!”

“ _Bollocks_ ,” Eames barks, “You just  _happened_ to be in our home? On Valentine’s Day? You bloody pervert,” he hisses, reaching down to grab Frank’s ankle and yank him back.

Frank screams.

Arthur runs out of the bedroom, covered in a robe. “Eames, stop!” he pleads, grabbing his arm. “What are you going to do? Kill Frank in our living room?”

"Maybe," he growls menacingly, his wild gaze meeting Frank’s eyes, which are still the size of saucers.

Arthur is quiet for a moment as he considers the gun. “Is…that the new Glock?” he asks, head tilted slightly.

Frank stares at him disbelievingly, but the topic change at least distracts Eames momentarily. “Yeah…it’s your bloody gift, isn’t it?” he spits, waving the gun (bow and all) through the air.

The omega smiles brightly, like they’re not in the direct middle of a bloody domestic—like they’re just  _hanging out_ as chums—and takes the gun from Eames’ hand. “Really?” he asks giddily, feeling the weight of the gun against his palm and aiming it at the door, just as Eames had in the gun store. “Oh, Eames. It’s beautiful,” he sighs, caressing the barrel lovingly.

Eames still has Frank’s ankle hooked, and the other alpha stares wide-eyed at Arthur. “Uh, excuse me. Hi. Can you kindly stop your husband from killing me?”

Arthur rolls his eyes and pulls out the clip to show Frank it’s empty. “He’s just trying to scare you.”

When Eames drops Frank’s foot, the other alpha quickly scrambles away until he can stand. His hair is wild, suit a rumpled mess, and he looks like he’s aged about a decade in five minutes. “Oh…well…very good, then,” he sighs, hand resting over his heart.

"I could still beat you to death with it," Eames growls, nodding at the gun.

Arthur doesn’t look like he’s interested in either of the alphas anymore as he fondles his new toy, aiming it at various objects in the living room and balancing it on his palm to marvel at the even weight. “Eames, he said it was an accident.”

Eames grips the back of the couch, head bowed. “You can’t seriously believe that. He’s been madly in love with you for years, and now he just _happens_  to walk in on us? Don’t be bloody naive.”

"Woah!" Frank shouts, having the nerve to look  _offended_ by Eames’ accusation. “How dare you, sir! I honour the sacred tradition of marriage! I would never,  _ever_ pursue a happily married omega!”

Arthur and Eames stare at him, unimpressed.

Luckily for Frank, the door bell rings just then. “Oh, thank God,” Frank gasps, bracing his hands on his thighs as he bends over, sucking in deep breaths.

Pointing aggressively in his direction, Eames commands: “Don’t move” as he approaches the door and opens it. Max is standing on the porch, frowning, his brow furrowed in worry.

"Hey, I heard shouting. Are you okay?"

"Max, call the police!" Frank cries.

Eames sighs and waves his son inside. “Yeah, ducky. Everything is fine. I’m just going to kill Frank.”

Max wanders into the foyer, eyeing them all like he thinks they’re crazy. “Why? What happened?” he asks, warily glancing from Eames to Frank, and finally Arthur. “Is that a gun?”

Smiling brightly, Arthur holds up the Glock in a non-threatening fashion as he approaches Max. “It’s my Valentine’s gift. Isn’t it beautiful?” he asks, hugging Max in greeting, who hesitantly returns the embrace, probably because he still thinks they’ve all gone mental.

"Only you would think a  _gun_ is beautiful,” Max smirks, brow still furrowed as he stares at Frank. “Why are you going to kill Frank?”

"I’m a political prisoner!" Frank declares, still wild-eyed, groping blindly at the kitchen counter, perhaps looking for something to arm himself with. He picks up a pen.

"Don’t worry about it, ducky," Eames replies, finally calm now that Max is in the house. There’s a time and place for pure alpha rage, but he doesn’t want to frighten his youngest. "What are you doing here this time of night?"

Max finally looks away from Frank, smiling brightly. “Oh…well. Please don’t kill Frank because I’m going to need even more help babysitting soon. I’m pregnant again.”

And it’s that statement—the only bit of news in the world that could successfully distract Eames from the fact that Frank barged in on what was otherwise a wonderful roll in the hay with his mate—that saves Frank’s life. “Ducky…” Eames sighs, smiling happily as he hugs him in a warm embrace and picks him up. Max laughs and holds on tightly.

Arthur is beside himself with joy—making excited declarations and asking a million questions at the same time. “Congratulations! When did you find out? You’ll need help with the twins. Max, I keep telling you to bring them over here. I always want more time with my grandkids. Bring them over whenever. Oh, Eames will have to cook for you. Eames, you’ll cook for Max so he doesn’t have to. And I’ll clean. No more vacuuming for you.”

Max laughs. “I just found out a couple days ago. Sorry, we’ve been in planning mode. I can’t stay long, though. Ravi has a whole Valentine’s thing arranged. I just wanted to tell you guys,” he says, once Eames finally puts him down.

"Well done, ducky," Eames says softly, cupping Max’s face and smiling affectionately at him.

When he sees movement behind his son, Eames suddenly remembers Frank’s presence, and everything that happened before Max told them they’re going to be grandparents again. “Frank!” he barks, but it’s too late. The distraction has bought the other alpha enough time to get to the door, throw it open, and escape into the night.

***

Max stays a few more moments after Frank’s exit, a good thing because his sunny presence manages to calm down Eames. By the time their youngest leaves for the night, Eames is barely angry at all, though he does occasionally mumble a vague threat under his breath as he sheds his ruined suit and stalks into the bathroom. “Bloody pervert,” he mutters for the hundredth time as he starts the shower, and standing nude by the tub, glances over his shoulder at Arthur. “Joining me?”

And, really, Arthur is only human. Who could turn down an invitation like that?

"Uh-huh," he replies quickly, losing the robe and slipping out of the negligee. He’ll need to send it off to their dry cleaner, a discreet, quiet beta who thankfully never asks questions when Arthur brings in a menagerie of lacy garments, all sporting various miscellaneous stains. His brow furrows as he looks around the room for a couple seconds. He looks beside the bed, and then the other side—then paces the length of the room, and finally gets on all fours to look  _under_ the bed.

 _Shit_.

Finally, Arthur sits down gingerly on the edge of the bed and scowls into the middle distance.

_Fucking Frank._

_What a pervert._

***

Frank sprints to his car and speeds the entire way back to his apartment, even though his phone constantly vibrates on the passenger seat, and it’s probably Max asking him to come over and babysit so he can go knock boots with Mr. Lalla. Well, it ain’t happening, thank you very much. Frank Costa wasn’t born a fool. He knows when to get the hell out of dodge—namely when a crazed alpha is chasing you around his living room with a Glock.

He parks his car diagonally across two spots in the parking lot, charges up to the second floor, and then locks every bolt on his door. Just to be extra safe, he then pulls a heavy chair in front of the door, and then sits on the couch, clutching a wooden baseball bat. Just let Eames come over and try to kill him. Frank will be waiting and cave his damn head in. 

Maybe.

Probably not. Arthur would be upset if he ever really hurt Eames.

Life is so fucking unfair.

Frank was just trying to be neighbourly, checking in on the Eameses to see if they needed anything, and then he thought he heard a distressed call from the bedroom…

Well…sort of. What he actually heard was Arthur moan  _daddy_ , and Jesus Christ. Who wouldn’t want to see what that was all about? So Frank peaked in. Sue him. It’s not like he tried to make a move on Arthur, or anything. He just snuck a glance, and Eames went fucking ballistic. What a psycho.

Frank balances the bat on his lap and snatches the remote from his coffee table. He angrily flits through the channels until he lands on porn broadcasting on a premium channel he’s been receiving for free—for some reason—over the past couple of months. Cable company screw up. Too bad. Frank isn’t going to call them up and report the error, like some sucker. He’s just going to keep his head low and enjoy this bit of luck.

There’s some terribly contrived scene unfolding on a cheap set arranged to look like a prison cell between a warden, a big alpha with a spray tan, and a little brunette omega prisoner, who Frank immediately likes. He’s tall and slender, and sort of looks like Arthur if Frank doesn’t obsess over his variety of flaws (nose is too big, teeth are a little wonky), but if he squints it does the trick.

His hand shoves into the pocket of his jacket and feels around for a couple seconds until his balled fist emerges. Frank gazes down at his hand, fingers slowly unfurling to reveal the red lace of Arthur’s underwear. 

And sure, he might have felt guilty—for stealing, for violating Arthur’s privacy, if he hasn’t been greeted so rudely. If Arthur and Eames and the whole world are going to assume he’s a pervert, then why not play that part and get  _something_  out of all these baseless accusations? Frank gazes down at the thong, kneading the fabric between his finger pads for a moment. The TV omega moans suddenly, and Frank shuts his eyes, willing his imagination to supplement Arthur’s voice with the breathy groans. 

Everyone already assumes the worst of him, so why not have a little bit of fun?

Frank nods in silent agreement with himself and sets aside the bat so he can unfasten his pants. Truthfully, he’s been half-hard since walking in on Arthur, bent over the bed in his little nighty. He had no idea the omega was into that cross-dressing stuff, but now that he knows, Arthur is even more appealing. Usually buttoned-up omegas like him are dull in the bedroom, but clearly that isn’t the case. Arthur is into kinky stuff—maybe even kinkier than stuff Frank’s done in the past.

When he shoves down his boxers, his dick pops out in greeting, and Frank grips it, stroking slowly as he watches the TV, where the alpha now has the omega bent over his cell cot. He bets Arthur gets crazy wet during sex, and Frank pauses to lick his palm to simulate (at least a little bit) that natural omega wetness. His head drops, reclined back against the couch as he jerks slowly. He probably smells so good, too. To verify his hypothesis, Frank buries his face in the panties and inhales deeply, freely groaning when the omega’s pheromones flood his nostrils. He’s completely hard now, and Frank strokes himself enthusiastically in time with the thrusts of the alpha on the screen. He pretends it’s him in the scene, and Arthur is bent before him, soaked and pliant, and begging _daddy, daddy, daddy_ …

He presses his nose and mouth into the lace, greedily inhaling as he beats off—his hand blurring on his dick as he imagines fucking Arthur hard. Frank would do anything he wanted. If Arthur is into that femplay shit, he’d buy him nice little skirts so he could dress up as a naughty schoolgirl, and Frank would play his teacher. Whatever he wants. Arthur would be so pretty in his little dresses, with his long legs and his perky ass.

An agonised cry tears from his throat when he comes in thick bursts all over his dress shirt and slacks. The orgasm wrecks him, leaving him disheveled on the couch. Afterwards, he vacantly stares at the porno, but reality is too sharp and clear now, and the on-screen omega is very clearly not Arthur. He quickly turns off the TV, but is careful not to get his cum on Arthur’s underwear—not that he plans on returning the thong, but because he wants to preserve the smell.

If he even tried to return the garment, Eames would put his head through the wall, so why not keep his trophy?

After cleaning up with a handful of tissues, Frank stores the panties in his sock drawer—towards the back. He takes one last sniff before storing them for keeping.

When he exits the bedroom, his phone is vibrating on the kitchen counter. Max is calling. Frank glares suspiciously at the screen and then answers it, figuring he needs to face the music sooner or later.

"Frank!" Max exclaims joyously, so Frank immediately knows Arthur hasn’t filled him in on all the sordid details. 

"Eyup," Frank answers, wading cautiously into the conversation.

Max sighs exasperatedly. “Where are you? I’ve been calling for an hour. Can you come over and watch the kids?”

Frank rolls his eyes. That’s code for  _I want to go do the nasty with my tall husband_ , but he supposes it’s the least he can do for Arthur, considering everything that’s happened. “Uh, yeah. Can you give me fifteen minutes?” Frank gazes down at his soiled shirt and pants. He can’t go babysitting in this condition.

"Fifteen? Yeah, just hurry," Max says, quickly disconnecting.

He sighs and leans against the kitchen counter, gazing down at his phone. Once again, Frank is struck by the true fact that no one really appreciates all he does for this big, weird family. Honestly, measured against most metrics of human decency, Frank is a goddamn saint. He really is. He’s brilliant with the kids, so if he has the occasional off-colour fantasy about Arthur, why is that such a big deal? It’s a compliment! And also, Arthur probably likes the attention—secretly, deep down.

Frank nods, pleased with his rationalization, and he has a little pep in his step when he goes to change into a fresh suit.


	47. The Julian Job

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, bbs. This requires a bit of background. I’m not sure how anyone this deep into WPF wouldn’t have read the original fic, but just in case…
> 
> This fic draws heavily from Chapter 7 of the original White Picket Fences fic. 
> 
> The part of Julian, as always, is played by Idris Elba :D

Uninformed outsiders probably imagine dreamshare work as sexy and dangerous, but the truth is a lot of it involves intricate planning, sitting around, and waiting. Yes, the dreaming part is always exhilarating, but that usually only extends minutes in the real world. The rest of the business requires meetings headed by Dominic Cobb, and playing the part of lab rat in Ravi’s mad experiments.

Jack has been keeping his head down the past few weeks, and slowly inching his way back into Cobb’s good graces. He keeps his mouth shut whenever Selena does something terribly OCD, or someone negatively critiques his forgers.  _Be a team player_ , he repeats to himself, and silently swallows the bitter pill of group work. He absorbs the feedback, makes the proper adjustments, and everyone thus far seems to be very pleased with his work.

Which makes Jack feel less like a liability, and greatly improves his mood.

Most of their clients are corporations—businesses that use dreams as a kind of training manuel, but occasionally the police also request Cobb’s help, particularly concerning traumatized victims who can’t recall certain details of a crime. They recreate the landscape, put all the pieces in place, and then drop the subject inside so they can organically remember the exact sequence of events. It’s good, regular work, but it does frequently stray into boring territory.

That is, unless an interesting client like Julian walks into their office. That’s his whole identification—Julian. No more, no less. The first thing Cobb says to Jack is to not ask any personal questions about the man’s background, and to not inquire about a last name. It’s just  _Julian_. The second thing Cobb says is that he knows Julian from early in his dreamshare career.

"He’s a great forger," Cobb says, standing by his desk as they gaze out his office window to the main floor, where Julian is regaling Rose and Selena with some story that can’t possibly be as entertaining as the enchanted beta and omega are making it out to be. The women are lingering at Rose’s desk, and look tiny standing beside the human mountain that is Julian.

Jack glares at their client suspiciously. “He worked with my dads?”

Cobb hesitates for a moment, and Cobb  _never_ hesitates, so the pause immediately grabs Jack’s attention and he looks over to his uncle. “Uh, yeah. Briefly, anyway.” When Jack stares at him, waiting for an articulation, Cobb sighs exasperatedly. “Just go do your job and stop interrogating me, all right?”

The third thing Cobb tells them later in the day, once Julian has left, during their first group meeting regarding their new client. “Julian needs help remembering a combination,” Cobb explains, writing out the word _combination_ on the chalkboard behind him. Their leader is still incredibly old-fashioned about some things. “It’s to a safe he owns. In 2006, he was skiing in the Alps and got into a very serious accident that resulted in brain trauma. His memory has been fuzzy ever since, so we’re dealing with a basic long-term memory loss scenario.”

Jack nods thoughtfully, watching as Cobb writes out  _long-term memory loss_. They’ve dealt with many clients suffering from memory loss, so this isn’t anything terribly exotic. “What’s in the safe?” he asks.

Cobb looks away from the board to him and smirks. “Make sure you’re in the room when he opens it, and you’ll find out.”

***

"I bet it’s gold," Rose says as she bends over her desk, working on one of her endless sketches of cityscapes and apartment blueprints. Photos of Julian’s loft apartment are scattered across her desk, and she’s been drawing and re-drawing the exact same spaces over and over, committing them to memory. Normally, they’re not supposed to exactly replicate a real place in a dream, but for this scenario, they’ll need to do it so Julian will know where to find his safe. Cobb says it shouldn’t be dangerous because it’s not an emotionally charged dream, or a place anyone on the team is ever likely to visit again, so there won’t be danger of confusing the dream and reality. 

“ _Gold_?” Jack asks disbelievingly, looking up from his surveillance photos of the staff of Julian’s building: the doorman, the concierge, and the cleaning staff—the usual suspects whose skin he plans to wear in order to monitor Julian’s progress through the dream. “He’s not a pirate, Rose.”

Rose frowns at her sketches. “Well, what do  _you_  think it is?” she asks accusingly.

"I’ve no idea," he sighs, reclining in his chair. He hasn’t put much thought into it. Julian is a client—a pay check, nothing more. For all he cares, the safe is stacked with severed human hands. "Maybe a beloved family heirloom."

His sister looks less than enthralled with his version of events. She rolls her eyes and snorts: “What, like pearl earrings?  _Thrilling_ , Jack.”

He’s about to say something really rude, but then Selena appears, dressed in one of her just-above-the-knee skirts, a pretty plum chiffon top, and tasteful string of pearls. Her heels click on the floor, and Jack focuses on willing his heart to match the steady rhythm. There’s no need to get into a shouting war with his sister over something so silly. “What do you think is in the safe, Ms. Kim?” he asks pleasantly, offering up one of his more charming smiles.

She pauses between their desks and stares into the distance thoughtfully for a moment before answering. “Stock portfolios,” she answers.

Jack waits for an elaboration that never comes. “Stock portfolios?”

Selena nods, eyes twinkling as though reliving her days as a straight-A student who always, always gives the right answer. “That’s what I keep in my safe,” she says, voice chipper before she resumes walking—no doubt off to colour-code their filing system, or some other horribly drab task.

"That woman is not human," Jack comments to no one in particular, but Rose takes it as a personal slight.

“ _Hey_ ,” she hisses, pointing directly at her brother. “ _Don’t_  insult Selena. She’s my life idol. Did you know all the books in her apartment are arranged by author’s last name  _and_ topic? I nearly cried when I saw it.”

Jack frowns. “When were you at her apartment?”

"I go all the time," Rose responds smugly. "We’re  _friends_.”

He hugely resents this development—this  _friendship_  between Rose and Selena—and decides to make it his mission to illustrate to his sister how weird Selena really is. Instead of working on the job, as he should be doing, Jack constructs little experiments. In one such hypothesis, Jack carefully lays out six pencils on his desk in perfect parallel symmetry, except the last pencil, which he places at a slightly crooked angle.

Rose rolls her eyes while he labours. “How old are you?”

"Shhh…" Jack hushes because Selena is approaching his desk. "Hello, Ms. Kim. I hope this fine Monday finds you well."

Selena’s brow furrows when she pauses in front of Jack’s desk, and she glances briefly at the pencils. “I’m fine. How are the forges going? I found some clearer photos of the doorman if you’re having trouble with that one,” she says, gaze flitting down to the pencils again.

A slow smile breaks out across his face because he can tell his test is already working. “They’re going well. I think you’re going to be  _very_ pleased,” he says, brows arching when Selena again glances down at his desk. He looks past the point woman to Rose, who is glowering at him.

"Ah…good, then," Selena says, smiling slightly, looking generally pleased. She hesitates a split second, reaches down to straighten the last pencil, and walks away from Jack’s desk. It’s a good thing she doesn’t look back because Jack is silently cackling, pumping his fists into the air in victory because Selena is completely goddamn out of her mind, and now he has objective evidence to confirm it.

Rose looks like she just sucked on a lemon. “Oh, shut up, you idiot,” she growls.

***

It’s nice having Selena around because she handles the clients. At least, that’s how it usually works, but this time it’s different because Julian and Cobb go way back, and as such Cobb feels a certain  _obligation_ to micromanage this job into the ground. Also, this means Julian hangs around a lot more than their regular clients, which no one except Jack seems to mind. Rose keeps asking the alpha a million questions about the old days of dreamshare, and most annoyingly, Selena fusses over him like he’s a visiting diplomat—constantly offering to fetch him pastries and coffee (“Two sugars, right?”  _That’s right, Ms. Kim. You know me so well already_ ,) followed by lots of jovial laughter that makes Jack want to throw something at the wall.

But he’s compartmentalising the hostility he’s feeling—boxing it up neatly and shoving it to the back of his mind because he’s still on thin ice and there’s no need to draw attention to himself. This strategy works for a while, until the women return to work and Julian wanders over to his work station. Initially, Jack hopes by keeping his head bowed and gaze fixated to the papers splayed across his desk, Julian will take the hint and fuck off, but when he continues to linger nearby, Jack realizes it’s not working. He looks up to the other alpha and gives a tight-lipped I’m-being-polite-but-not-really smile. “Yes?”

The dazed expression on Julians’ face is the first sign he isn’t hovering nearby to be a dick. “Um, sorry. You look just like—Sorry, you look just like your father.” 

Jack slowly sets down his pen and leans back in his chair so he can look up at Julian. He’s never been one to pass up an opportunity to allow someone to compare him to Eames (in a favourable way). “You worked with my dads, right?”

Julian nods, but his gaze slips past Jack, and it suddenly occurs to him that Julian is  _nervous_. It’s strange to see a large alpha like Julian look so awkward, standing there not knowing quite what to do with his hands—if he should walk away or continue loitering. He’s been the perfect image of calm confidence up until this point, and Jack wonders what changed in the last few seconds to put him on edge. “Uh, yeah. I did, except they weren’t your dads back then, or together,” he says, flashing a weak smile. Julian pauses then, reaching down to fiddle with one of his cufflinks. “How is Arthur?”

Jack has been observing people, and mimicking their tells, long enough to understand what’s going on. The nervousness, the sudden inquiry into Arthur’s well-being. All the pieces finally click into place.

_Oh._

"He’s really good," Jack answers, smiling politely.

 _Very interesting_.

_***_

Jack keeps the truth, his royal flush, cradled protectively to his chest for the time being. This is the kind of juicy gossip one doesn’t unleash until the right time and place. Besides, he’s being a responsible professional and focusing on his work. Today they’re going under for their first rehearsal, and as Ravi hooks Selena, Rose, and Jack up to the PASIV, Cobb is filling them in on what they can expect to see when Julian joins them in the dream next week.

"In clients with long-term memory loss, sometimes things can get a bit…hectic," Cobb says, standing in front of them with his arms crossed. Jack looks away from his arm, where Ravi is fiddling with the line, and furrows his brow. He doesn’t like the emphasis Cobb places on that last word. "Julian will have a hard time remembering some things, and the mind may panic, churning up all kinds of half-recalled memories. Just expect anything while you’re down there."

Jack nods slowly. That’s something to worry over another day. For the time being, they’re going to build the set in Jack’s dream—a dry run before the big day. He lays back in the padded recliner and closes his eyes because Jack prefers to make the drug-induced coma feel like willing sleep. When he opens his eyes, they’re standing in Julian’s flat, already entirely constructed down to the tiniest detail. That’s how fast Rose builds. And he has to admit, as he wanders around the place, touching little pieces of bric-à-brac, that his sister is very talented indeed.

“ _Very_  nice, Ms. Eames,” Selena comments, ever-scribbling in her little moleskin notebook, and if Rose had a tail, it would be wagging furiously in the wake of her hero’s lavish praise.

Jack rolls his eyes and continues to walk around the place, casually looking here and there, but secretly hunting for any evidence of his father. If Arthur and Julian were an item back in the day, then maybe Julian held onto a keepsake from their time together. There aren’t any photos, though. Nor are there any particularly personal, nostalgic items. Julian’s place is exactly as sterile and impersonal as one would expect a former international criminal’s dwelling to be. 

Selena looks up at him. “Your turn, Mr. Eames.”

Without hesitating, he slips into the skin of Bertha, Julian’s housekeeper. She’s a tall Swedish woman, built solidly to last physical hardship. Selena approaches him slowly, and as is their custom, Jack awaits her decision with breathless anticipation and a healthy dose of fear. He watches her through Bertha’s blue eyes, and breathes deeply when she’s standing right in front of him so he can smell her perfume, and beneath that, her omega scent. Selena is oblivious to this, of course, because she’s gazing intensely at every little detail of Bertha’s face and her attire to see if Jack has made an error somewhere—anywhere.

He hasn’t.

Selena nods slowly. “Excellent, Mr. Eames.”

He drops the forge instantly, purring, “Thank you, Ms. Kim,” and then it’s Rose’s turn to roll her eyes.

***

While the women work out details of the loft, Jack announces he’s going to check the outer perimeter of the dreamscape to see if it’s sound. There’s no telling where Julian will want to wander in the dream, and they need to make sure the entire building and block—not just his loft—are up to snuff. Jack starts by walking down the hallway and trying to open various neighbour’s doors. They’re all locked, which is normal in the real world, and also a clever shortcut implemented by Rose. If the rooms are locked, then she doesn’t need to waste brainpower creating their layouts.

But when he reaches the end of the hallway, the last door on his right opens. Jack frowns and slowly pushes the door open. Inside, the room is a vastly different layout than Julian’s apartment, and Jack quickly realizes it’s not a flat at all, but rather a hotel room. He takes a step inside, and the second his shoe sinks into the tacky shag carpeting, a memory slams into him. He remembers the car flipping, and the men tearing him from his parents. He remembers the man with the bolo tie, and being pinned to a chair, as the men jammed an IV into his arm. He recalls that, strangely, he wasn’t afraid for his life until they brought him to this room and Arthur found him. Then one of the men attacked Arthur, and even though Jack was young—too young to  _really_  understand what concepts like rape and death mean—he remembers being terrified that something bad was going to happen to Arthur and he was powerless to stop it.

And that makes him so angry it’s hard to breathe.

He collapses hard to his knees and slumps forward, fingers furling into the carpet. He can’t breathe.

The walls tremble.

"It’s okay, baby," Arthur says, and when Jack strains to look up, he sees his father seated on the edge of the bed, dressed exactly as he was all those years ago, except in the centre of his chest there’s a blossoming red stain from where the man shot him. "I love you, okay?" he asks over the sound of a deafening grinding noise. When Jack glances to the window, he sees the enormous  _Chez Marcelle_ marquee break from the side of the building and crash to the street below.

He covers his ears and buries his face in the carpet. He doesn’t want to process the dream collapsing around him, or Arthur’s voice, repeating the last words Jack thought he’d ever hear him say. “You were supposed to take care of me,” he groans, a violent sob tearing through him suddenly. 

"I know, baby," the projection of Arthur responds, calm despite the world falling apart around them.

***

Jack heaves himself forward upon waking, but he can’t move. He can’t move, and he still can’t breathe, and so he thrashes in an utter panic. There are straps holding him down, but when he grabs at them to tear them away, he realizes they’re hands—that Cobb and Ravi are desperately trying to hold him in place.

"Breathe!" Cobb shouts, refusing to release him even through Jack is attacking with every ounce of his strength. "Jack, breathe!" he barks when they finally get him pinned down again.

Ravi holds his legs while his uncle keeps his arms locked down, and they both looked petrified. Finally, Jack can breathe, and he sucks in deep gulps of air, panting loudly as reality gradually comes back into focus. Rose is unhooked from the machine and seated on the edge of her chair, gazing at him with wide, fearful eyes, and when Jack looks closer, he notices she’s crying. That’s when he knows this time his fuck up is different. This isn’t just the dream collapsing. Something else happened.

"What—" he begins to ask, but his voice comes out as a broken whisper. He feels like he’s been asleep for days.

"You had a minor seizure," Ravi explains, still clinging to his legs, and watching Jack like he’s terrified something else is going to go wrong.

Jack swallows thickly, and when he looks past the men, he sees Selena standing a few feet away, wringing her hands in front of her. She’s pale, her eyes huge and filled with concern. But when she opens her mouth to speak, Jack pushes the men off him and leaps to his feet. He’s unsteady and feels faint, but the surge of anger keeps him standing. “It’s your fucking compounds!” he shouts accusingly, pointing at Ravi. “I never had these problems before you started working here!” he continues, even though that’s a lie. Jack’s issues date back to way before Ravi, but his brother-in-law is an easy target.

And normally he gets away with pulling this shit on betas and omegas, but Ravi is an alpha, and a proud professional. He doesn’t take the criticism lightly. His jaw locks and he stands up slowly—not speaking or shouting, but rather gradually rising to his full height so that Jack can take a moment to understand what he’s committing himself to. “There’s nothing wrong with the Somnacin,” Ravi responds calmly, a hint of menace its undercurrent.

"Bullshit!" Jack rages, now firmly in the midst of a tantrum and not knowing how to stop it.

“ _Jack_ ,” Cobb chastises, standing. “Calm down.”

He’s terrified and humiliated, and so hyper-aware of Selena’s presence that his skin feels like it’s on fire. “This is so fucking typical. Of course you’re blaming me,” he says, turning on Cobb, which is career suicide, and Ravi knows it.

That’s why, despite Jack being a little shit, he grabs him by the arm, and mutters, “I need to see you in my office  _right now_ ,” and half-escorts, half-drags Jack into the lab, and slams the door behind them before he can say anything else to Cobb. “Sit down,” he instructs—never raising his voice, but Jack complies, nonetheless. That must be a skill alphas acquire as soon as they have kids. 

He sits down heavily at Ravi’s oak desk that sticks out like a sore thumb admits all the stainless steel, shiny metal lab equipment, and white walls. The alpha has framed photos on his desk of the family, and Jack looks at a photo of Ravi, Max, and the twins. They were really tiny when the photo was taken, and Aadita has a big pink bow in her hair that is nearly the size of her head. Jack pants for breath, and focuses on the photo as he calms down, which gives him enough time to understand the enormity of his screw up.

"Fuck," he whispers.

Ravi slowly pulls over a metal stool and sits down in front of him. “What’s going on with you?” he asks, and though he should be royally pissed off at Jack, his tone is filled with concern.

And isn’t  _that_ the million dollar question?

He shakes his head, fingers rubbing at his face as he tries to string together a coherent explanation. “I had a panic attack and the dream collapsed,” he finally confesses because that’s actually what happened. It had nothing to do with Ravi or anyone else.

Jack is going crazy.

Ravi nods thoughtfully and crosses his arms over his chest as he ponders the situation. “And this has happened before,” he says, more to himself than to Jack. Ravi has been present a few times when Jack botched a dream, but never this badly. This is the first time the physical reaction has carried over to when he was awake. “What triggered it?”

Rolling his eyes, Jack sighs loudly because now he’s going to sound like one of Freud’s patients. “Arthur. I saw him…Actually, I had a memory of him.”

His brother-in-law doesn’t pry further, probably assuming whatever memory was intense enough to invoke a panic attack in Jack is also probably too personal to share aloud in a business environment. Which is just one of the many reasons that Ravi is a great guy, and Jack feels like a total asshole for yelling at him. “You need to talk to Arthur,” Ravi says. Jack nods weakly because this is also the conclusion he reached somewhere between tearing the world down and screaming at his uncle-slash-boss. “But you need to pull yourself together, Jack,” Ravi adds, sighing. “What would I tell Max if anything ever happened to you?”

The words are a dagger in his heart, but he knows Ravi is right. Deep inside him, whatever is wrong is killing him. He needs to address it or it’s going to destroy him, and everything he’s worked for. 

He excuses himself for the day, and thankfully no one says anything, and Cobb doesn’t fire him right on the spot. Jack drives straight to his parents’ house, and by some serendipitous stroke of luck, Eames is out running errands, and Arthur says it’s the perfect time for a visit. He must be better at hiding his emotions than he previously thought because Arthur hurries into the kitchen, pulling out vegetables and pots, as he obliviously prattles on about what he’s going to make them for lunch.

Jack follows him into the kitchen and watches him carry on before he finally speaks: “I have to talk with you.”

Though he might outwardly look composed, the rasp of his voice gives him away. Arthur immediately sets down a pot on an oven burner and frowns at him. “What’s wrong?”

He reaches back to grip the counter—to brace himself, but also because he doesn’t know where to start. That’s always been the problem with talking about his issues. Jack simply doesn’t know where to begin. Except, now the dream has given him a clue. “When I was nine, those men took me…”

Arthur inhales sharply and his face goes very calm, which is how Jack knows he’s slamming the doors shut behind his eyes. This is how Arthur always reacts whenever someone tries to bring up the kidnapping. It hasn’t happened often—maybe three times in Jack’s whole life, but Arthur has a way of protecting himself, particularly from painful memories. He shuts down.

Except, Jack isn’t going to let him shut down this time.

"What do you want me to say?" Arthur finally asks softly.

Jack laughs, but the sound is completely devoid of mirth. It’s more of an accusatory bark. “I’m totally fucking traumatized by it. Did you know I couldn’t sleep through the night  _for months_  after that?”

Arthur sways slightly on his feet and the blood drains from his face. “No,” he confesses softly. Jack had only come to their bed to sleep with them a handful of times after the incident. The other nights, he laid awake in bed for hours, waiting for the men to return and take him. Frequently, he crawled into bed with Max, but his brother never told their parents about those times.

"Yeah, well…I couldn’t," he answers cruelly, not allowing himself to feel regret or guilt when Arthur’s Adam’s apple bobs and tears well up in his eyes. "You’re always telling me I need to be strong and brave, but I shouldn’t have had to be those thing back then. I was a kid," he continues, now pointing at Arthur. Until this moment, it never occurred to Jack that he can’t be brave about certain things. He’s Arthur’s  _Superman_ , after all. He has to be everyone’s rock. He looks away from Arthur when a tear slips down his father’s face. If he sees Arthur cry, he’s going to break down and lose his nerve to say the rest of what he needs to get off his chest. “I know what happened isn’t your fault, but you expect everyone to be as strong as you all the time, and we’re not. Even if we’re alphas, we’re not as strong as you.”

When he looks back at Arthur, his father is nodding tentatively, and quickly wipes at his face. “You’re right,” he whispers. 

Jack sighs heavily because it doesn’t help to hear Arthur admit he’s right, or to see him cry. “I’m so pissed off at you, and I love you more than anything. It’s confusing the shit out of me,” he says as he walks forward and wraps his arms around Arthur. His father hugs him fiercely, clinging to him, and though he knows Arthur is trying to do it quietly, Jack can feel him shaking as he cries.

"I’m sorry," Arthur moans miserably, and Jack hugs him tighter. It’s not Arthur’s fault men hunted them, or a cruel alpha attacked him, but it is his fault that he didn’t talk to Jack about it afterwards, and he knows that now. Eames at least tried—on a few occasions, he sat down with Jack and asked him what he remembered about the traumatic ordeal, and how he felt about it. But Jack needed the attention and affection of an omega, and while Arthur could provide that in other aspects of his life, he shut down when it came to this one event. "I don’t like to think about it," Arthur whispers against his shoulder.

Jack kisses his temple because he understands that. Arthur thought his first born might die, then an alpha might hurt him, and finally that he was going to die. Jack knows he’s not the only one suffering from trauma here. “I love you no matter what,” he says because he at least knows that’s true.

"I love you so much," Arthur answers, finally unguarded in all his sadness and regret.

***

They sit together on the couch for a long time, talking quietly. To be more precise, Jack talks a lot and Arthur listens, occasionally interjecting with his thoughts and feelings. It’s a good, cleansing exchange, and though it doesn’t fix everything—not by a long shot—Jack feels much better. He explains how he’s felt a strange mixture of anger and affection throughout his relationship with omegas, and he thinks that must stem from the powerful emotions he felt when Arthur’s life was in danger. He loves his father more than anything, but he blamed him for his trauma all these years.

And that’s not fair on either of them. It’s good that Arthur has finally come to terms with what he’s done, and has apologised for it, but now it’s time for Jack to let it go. For his own sake.

Eames returns about an hour later, and brings Max and the twins with him. As soon as the door swings open, Arthur and Jack stand from the couch. “Look who I have!” the alpha announces cheerily upon his arrival, then pauses when he sees the serious expressions on their faces. He doesn’t say anything, but shoots Arthur a curious expression, and the omega responds by shaking his head minutely to indicate everything is okay. They can speak later.

Max is clueless. He smiles brightly upon seeing Jack. “Hey!” he cries, walking right to him and ensnaring him in a hug. Not for the first time, Jack feels grateful for his brother’s obliviousness. It’s nice to greedily soak up Max’s unbridled love and enthusiasm after feeling depressed for so long. “I didn’t know you’d be here. Look who it is!” he cries excitedly when Eames sets down the babies’ carriers. Charles already sees Jack and is laughing gleefully, but instead of handing him the baby, this time Max stands him on his unsteady, chubby legs. “Jack, look…watch…” he says as he holds Charles’ hands and the baby take a few timid steps forward.

"Holy shit," Jack gasps, eyes wide as he watches his nephew walk. "When did this start?"

"A couple days after I found out I’m pregnant," Max says, nodding Arthur’s way, as he continues to hold Charles’ hands and help him along. "Dad had him and said  _you can do it Charles_ , and then he walked. It was incredible.”

"He was probably fearful for his little life," Eames teases, pausing to kiss the top of Arthur’s head. "God forbid he disobeyed a direct order," he chuckles as Arthur lightly swats at his arm and smirks.

Jack crouches close to the floor when Charles and Max approach him, his nephew smiling excitedly as he shows off his new moves. “Doing great, buddy,” Jack encourages, holding his arms open so Charles can fall into them when he’s close. “Woah!” Jack cries, scooping him up and falling onto his back. Charles squeals loudly and splays across his chest, victorious in the vanquishment of his much larger alpha uncle.

"Now watch Aady," Max instructs, and Jack dutifully sits up, reclining Charles against his stomach and chest so he can now witness his niece walk. Aady is much more graceful and determined—charging, more than walking—as she beelines straight for him. Max has to hurry along with her, gripping her hands so she doesn’t topple over, but she remains remarkably focused until she’s standing directly in front of Jack.

"Aady!" Jack cries, genuinely impressed. She squeals and bounces in place, tugging on Max’s grip and preens under the attention of her uncle. "You’re a beast," he says, laughing when she sits down heavily on her diapered butt. Walking is tiring business. 

He also feels exhausted, but happy and grateful for the simple interaction with his brother and the babies. Things are uncomplicated when he’s with Max and the kids. They love him endlessly, and he loves them in return. Max thinks he hung the moon, and even though that’s a lie and Jack is tragically fucked up, it’s nice that Max still think he’s a good, strong, capable alpha. “Are you hungry?” Max asks, and Jack pauses before he realizes his stomach is churning. Actually, he’s starving. 

"Uh, yeah, but I can make something…"

"No, no," Max says, waving him away. Lately, Max has really become gung-ho about his role as a caregiver, and he perpetually thinks Jack is wasting away. "I’ll make you something!" he says, hurrying to the kitchen. 

When Jack stares after him in confusion, Arthur grins and shakes his head. “Just let him. I was the same way after I had you.”

Eames sits down beside Arthur and wraps an arm around his shoulders, a gesture that Arthur immediately leans into. He’s sure his father must also be fatigued, and this is reflected when the alpha kisses his brow, and he slowly shuts his eyes. “You okay?” Eames asks quietly, too softly for Max to hear. Arthur answers by nodding slightly and flashing a smile. Jack watches them, relaxing incrementally the longer his alpha father and brother fill the room with their energy. 

The tightening in his chest has finally unknotted. 

Aady crawls forward until she reaches her uncle, and Jack props her up beside Charles so she can rest against him too. “How’s work?” Eames asks, the sounds of Max banging around in the kitchen emanating from behind them.

 _Shit_. Jack decides to selectively share how work has been going. “Good…” he says, but then he remembers all the details of their new job and smirks. “Uh, interesting, actually. We have a new client…” he says, looking up at Arthur, who seems to glean something is up because his eyes shine curiously. “This guy named Julian.”

Eames simple nods because, sure, Julian is a common enough name, and maybe he doesn’t remember Julian from his days in dreamshare.

Or…

Jack locks gazes with Arthur, whose eyes have now taken on a slightly alarmed quality. 

Maybe Eames doesn’t know Arthur dated someone before him.

 _Interesting_.

He thinks back to the uncomfortable interaction at the grocery store, when poor little Jacob unknowingly walked into a lion’s den, and how Arthur had immediately climbed onto his pedestal to make Eames feel guilty.  _How very interesting_. Arthur and Jack have an entire silent conversation in the time it take for Eames to realise something is going on. 

Jack grins wickedly. “You used to work with him, I think. Julian..? The forger..?”

Eames’ eyes light up. “ _Julian_. Of course. Bloody hell. It’s been a while. How is he?”

"Not too good. He got into an accident and has memory loss, so we’re helping him out," Jack says, smiling down at Charles when the baby grabs his thumb. He bounces his hand up and down, and the baby giggles as he strains to hold on. Arthur is silent throughout the interaction, an interesting strategy that won’t ultimately save him. Now that all the drama has passed, Jack is feeling lighter than he has in weeks, and as a result, he’s in full-blown cheeky mode. "He was asking how you’re doing, dad," Jack adds breezily, looking to Arthur.

Arthur presses his lips together in a thin, pale line and glares at him. He resolutely refuses to look at Eames even when the alpha looks at him curiously. “About Arthur? Why’s he asking about you?” Eames asks.

From the kitchen, the sound of grease crackling and the smell of bacon. Lovely Max is making a lovely eggs and bacon sandwich for Jack. “Who’s Julian?” he asks, maybe not as deaf and oblivious as Jack originally believes.

Eames is still looking at Arthur. “Someone we used to work with, ducky,” he says, then under his breath slightly: “Why’s he asking about you?”

And Arthur is a wily, resourceful type, but even he knows when the game is up. He sighs loudly, folds his hands on his lap, and levels his apologetic gaze on Eames. “Because we used to date.”

Instantly, Jack regrets his little scheme when anger flashes in Eames’ eyes. He knows Arthur isn’t in danger, but he has a brief, terrible vision of his father storming over to his office and beating Julian to death. “ _What_?” he growls. “When?”

The noise from the kitchen dims and Jack knows Max is probably eavesdropping. Arthur rolls his eyes. “It was ages ago, Eames. I was a baby. Maybe seventeen…eighteen. I was brand new to dreamshare, and it didn’t last long,” he explains, adopting the false air of an apathetic, detached party. But Jack is good at reading tells. When Arthur plucks a pretend bit of flint from his trousers, Jack can see his fingers trembling. 

Arthur has worked tirelessly to convince his children and Eames, and everyone on earth, that he’s perfect. And most people believe that, but Jack knows better now. Arthur did not emerge from the womb perfectly coifed and supremely confident. He has a checkered past, and he’s capable of being vulnerable and hurt. He wants his children to believe he’s always made the right decisions because he always wants  _them_ to choose the responsible path. His fathers were criminals, but insisted their children be good and moral. It’s hypocritical, but Jack gets it. 

Arthur and Eames pretended to be perfect to protect them.

“ _How long_?” Eames asks, turning to face him on the couch, his voice rising slightly. From behind him, Jack sees Max lingering nervously by the kitchen island, having dropped all pretense of preparing Jack food. “Were you with him when I started working for Cobb?”

Arthur hesitates for a split second. “Briefly.”

"Bloody hell!" Eames cries, jumping off the couch and stalking across the room. He’s obviously worked up, emitting all kinds of crazy alpha pheromones that make Jack feel nervous and edgy. When he looks down at the babies, they’re warily watching their grandfather with wide eyes. This is the traditional response when the head of a pack loses his shit—fear and silence. "And all these years, you’ve made me feel guilty for my past—the omegas I dated, and you were carrying on with that wanker!"

Arthur levels an icy glare at him. “We dated for  _a month_ , Eames, and  _he_ dumped  _me._ " The confession derails Eames momentarily. He stops pacing about and stares in surprise at Arthur. The omega rolls his eyes again, but his cheeks are flushed, and he’s clearly embarrassed to talk about something so personal in front of his children, and his grandchildren, even though they don’t know what’s going on beyond their granddad shouting and making big gestures. "Things didn’t….progress as quickly as he wanted, so he called it off."

Hands on hips, Eames breathes loudly through his nose, eyes wild as he looks at his mate. Jack and Max share a fearful glance, waiting for their father’s next response, but when it comes, it’s not what he expected. “What a wanker,” Eames spits, brow furrowed. “That’s why he called it off? Because you wouldn’t put out?”

Arthur pinches the bridge of his nose, transitioning past humiliation into fatigued acceptance. “To put it indelicately, and in front of our children, _yes_.”

"What a tosser! I can’t believe—of all the… _disrespectful_ ,” Eames rambles, pointing angrily at the floor. Then he’s silent for a while. “Right,” he says eventually, and marches over to the kitchen where he plucks the car keys from the counter. “I’m off.”

Arthur jumps off the couch and chases after him. “Eames! Where are you going?” he demands, pursuing Eames to the door, but wisely not grabbing him. Laying one’s hands on an angry alpha is always a poor decision.

"I’m going to punch Julian in the mouth," he answers honestly, yanking the door open. "That prat—disrespecting you and then having the  _gall_ to ask about you.”

“ _Eames_ ,” Arthur says again, his voice desperate. “He was  _twenty_. I’m sure he’s not that man anymore. You can’t just walk in and attack him.”

"Watch me," is the last thing Eames says before walking from the house.

Jack carefully peels the babies off him and jumps to his feet. “I’m on it,” he says before Arthur can shoot an order at him. He chases Eames from the house. “Dad!” he shouts, but it’s too late. Eames is already in his car and peeling out of the driveway, nearly clipping Jack’s car in the process. “Fuck!” he shouts, and races to his car so he can pursue him.

Eames speeds the entire way to the office, but Jack keeps right on his heels, and doesn’t even bother pulling into a spot when they’re back in the lot. He throws the car into park, yanks the keys from the ignition, and sprints after Eames, who moves at a remarkable pace for an alpha of his age. If Jack’s botching of the dream rehearsal doesn’t get him fired, surely his crazed father charging the office and beating their client to death will. “Dad!” he shouts again, the whole way up the stairs, which Eames takes two at a time. He doesn’t think Eames will actually stop, but he’s hoping to make enough commotion to warn the others of their arrival.

He briefly wonders if maybe they’ll enjoy a bit of luck and Julian won’t have dropped into this office for his daily afternoon check-in, but of course that isn’t the case. As soon as they enter the office, he sees Julian seated on the corner of Rose’s desk. His sister stands up the second she sees Eames. “Dad?” she asks, baffled until Eames points at Julian and stalks towards him, and the meaning of his visit is instantly clear. Eames is radiating fury and alpha pheromones, and Julian leaps to his feet, prepared for the fight. “Dad!” Rose shrieks again, jumping up from the desk and darting away to stand beside Selena, who also watches on, eyes wide in horror. Jack is just preparing to tackle his father when Cobb suddenly bursts from his office, a cell phone cradled in his hand. 

Arthur must have called him just in the nick of time.

"Charles Eames!" Cobb roars, louder than Jack has ever heard his uncle. Everyone freezes in place, even Eames, though his murderous gaze is still fixated on Julian, who towers over his father, but still looks terrified nonetheless. "I need to see you in my office."

From the corner of his eye, Jack sees Ravi hurry from the lab and then stop in the doorway when he sees the tense gathering.

"Stay out of it, Cobb," Eames mutters, fists balled at his sides, nostrils flaring.

"Arthur wants me to speak with you," Cobb replies, choosing his words very carefully. It’s not a command from Cobb. This is an order from the very top. 

At the mention of his mate’s name, Eames finally looks away from Julian and to Cobb. There’s a tense standoff where Jack is almost entirely convinced his father is going to ignore Cobb and throttle Julian, but then again…he’s never really understood his father’s relationship with his uncle. Eames finally (mercifully) turns and stalks into Cobb’s office, who quickly closes the door behind them. Cobb then shuts the blinds to his office window, so they’re left in total privacy.

Ravi slumps against the doorframe. “Is it always this exciting around here?” he asks no one in particular.

Selena frowns deeply, probably blaming herself for allowing this to happen on her watch. “Not usually.”

"What the  _hell_ happened?” Rose snarls at Jack.

All eyes turn on Jack and he sighs loudly. “He… _might_ know about you and Arthur,” he explains, wincing apologetically at Julian.

Julian sits down heavily on the edge of the desk again. “Yeah, I got that much,” he smirks joylessly. “Fucking hell,” he gasps, loosening his tie. “My life just flashed before my eyes.”

"I’m really sorry," Jack murmurs, fully prepared for Julian to tell him to go fuck himself, and for the man to take his business elsewhere.

But Julian waves off his apology. “Believe me, I had that coming. I was a total wanker in my youth,” he says, shaking his head as if in disbelief at his previous life’s antics. “I had it coming,” he repeats quietly.

Selena snaps out of her daze and quickly fetches Julian a glass of water, which he drinks in steady, desperate gulps.

***

Jack has no clue what his uncle says to Eames, but when they door open, his father emerges and appears to be much calmer and collected. Regardless, Cobb accompanies him when they walk out on the floor, as if fearing Eames might fly off the handle and attack Julian again at any second.

Julian stands the second he sees Eames and warily watches as he approaches. “Eames…” he says, before anyone else has a chance to speak. “I’d like to apologize. I’ve behaved terribly, and I know—Arthur must have told you what happened. I’m a scoundrel. I really am. But you have a beautiful family now, and that’s all in the past—”

"So keep his name out of your mouth," Eames hisses, cutting him off. 

Cobb holds up his hand, and the other alphas go quiet. “Julian was wrong to bring up Arthur, and Eames was wrong to barge in here,” he says—not looking for confirmation. Cobb states these things as fact, and no one disputes him because he’s right. “I think we can be gentlemen and call this one a truce, hm?”

Julian nods quickly. “I’m sorry, mate.”

Eames doesn’t look at him, his gaze instead lingering on the exit. “Fine,” he mutters. But before he leaves, he points at Julian and glares fiercely at him. “These are my kids. You don’t get  _nostalgic_  with them about their father, understand?”

Julian mumbles a sheepish  _yes_ , but Eames probably doesn’t hear it because he’s already storming towards the door. When the door slams shut behind him, the room lets out a collective sigh. Rose retrieves a cell phone from her pocket and starts texting frantically—probably to Arthur to let him know Eames is on his way home. When Jack looks away from his sister, Cobb is staring straight at him.

"I need to see you in my office," he says.

***

Cobb’s desk separates them as they sit in their respective chairs—Cobb’s a nice, padded deluxe office chair, and Jack’s a metal folding chair, a temporary seat for a temporary man, he thinks miserably as he stares at his uncle. There’s no way he’s going to keep his job—not after fucking up so many times, and picking fights with Selena, and now making a stupid comment to Eames that nearly resulted in a fight at the office. Julian is a client, and it’s unforgivable that Jack shared with his parents something a client told him, even if was flippant and thoughtless. 

He’s behaved unprofessionally, sworn and caused all kinds of chaos, and broken every single one of Dominic Cobb’s rules. Breaking just one results in termination for people all the time—let alone the slew of mistakes Jack has made in the brief time he’s been employed.

Cobb’s bright blue eyes watch him hawkishly, letting Jack stew in his pit of despair for a long time before he speaks. “I owe Arthur a lot,” he says, smiling in a way that looks more like a wince. “I don’t know how much Arthur tells you about the past, but he saved my life, and I put him through some terrible times,” Cobb says, nodding slightly as if agreeing with his assessment now that he’s said it aloud. He smiles faintly at Jack, the corners of his eyes wrinkling. “Sometimes, I feel like the universe is punishing me with karma by giving me you as my new forger.”

Jack isn’t sure what to say. Surely, being called a  _punishment_ is bad news, right?

"Uh…"

"You’re brilliant, Jack," Cobb continues. "I just wish you believed in yourself as much as we all do."

Jack is silent in response. He idly wonders if this is a compliment sandwich: Cobb will say something nice, fire him, and then say something like:  _all the best_   _to you and yours_. 

"O…kay…"

Cobb sighs and leans back in his chair. “Calm down, I’m not firing you. I’m just trying to figure out what’s wrong with you.”

All the pressures of the world lift from Jack’s shoulders and he nearly weeps in relief—almost, but not quite. Instead, he deflates slightly in his seat and smiles slowly. “Fuck…that’s a question with a long answer,” he says, smirking. “It turns out, I’m a broken man suffering from issues with my omega father.”

Cobb grins at his honesty. 

"Aren’t we all?" he answers.

***

That’s the story of how Jack keeps his job in dreamshare. He fucks up and Cobb forgives him, and while he’ll never fully understand why, he knows it had something to do with Arthur and the debt Cobb owes him.

After his talk with Arthur, things are easier at work, and he doesn’t lash out as much. The job with Julian goes off without another hitch, and he even gets to see the moment when all their hard work pays off.

Julian kneels before the safe in his closet and punches in the numbers that he finally remembers nestled safely inside the replication of his home. Wearing Bertha’s skin, Jack watches as a note falls from the safe, and he instantly recognizes the type of moleskin paper. On the cream surface, in Arthur’s neat cursive is written:  _I’m sorry. I’m not ready._

Some men keep gold in their safes. Others keep stock portfolios, or family heirlooms.

Other men hide their regret.

Jack frequently doesn’t understand the things he finds in people’s hearts. He’s not sure if the note is symbolic, or if it actually exists inside the safe. Maybe Julian has other things—playful notes from Arthur, photographs of a seventeen-year-old, smiling and happy, but unprepared for anything more. Perhaps Julian desperately needed to open the safe to cleanse its contents—to burn the evidence because Arthur is not his, and it was killing him to know evidence suggesting otherwise exists in the world.

Whatever the case, Julian remembers the code by the time they wake up, and he’s quiet and reflective upon his exit. There is no grand proclamation of thanks—no meaningful last words. He simple nods at Cobb and leaves.

"So…" Rose says, sitting on the edge of his desk once everything is done. "What was inside?"

Jack shrugs slightly. “Dunno. I wasn’t there when he opened it,” he lies.

But it’s a good lie.

He’s done stirring the pot.


	48. The Julian Job's aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: angst ahead

If asked, Eames couldn’t tell someone how exactly he ended up in the car, driving back to their house. Dominic Cobb, as he is wont to do, somehow manipulated him into truly believing  _not_ breaking Julian’s nose with his fist was the right thing to do, which is why he’s driving along the highway, eyes occasionally flitting to the right in search of the correct exit. He’s still angry, breathing heavily through his nose, and slaps the dashboard violently when the radio goes out for a second, supplying static instead of whatever song had been playing a second ago—Eames doesn’t even know. He just wants to hit something.

"Bloody Cobb," he growls from behind clenched teeth. He fantasises about turning the car around, pressing the pedal to the floor, and again charging the office to attack Julian, but this time he’ll have the element of total surprise, and he’ll be able to really knock that giant git on his arse.

But no. He should go home because now he’s been gone for a while and Arthur will be worried. 

That’s how he ends up parked in their driveway, engine switched off, still panting loudly like his heart still expects him to fight a much larger alpha. He’s fuming mad the whole time, from stepping out of the car to the walk up the pathway, and even as he opens the door.

It’s not until he sees Arthur seated on the couch, face in his hands, that the anger releases him. His mate looks up sharply when the door opens, and Eames sees his cheeks are wet with tears. The image of Julian’s mangled form flies out of his head, replaced with a terrible ache that makes him feel sick with guilt. “Darling…” he sighs, immediately going to him, grabbing Arthur in a hug before he’s even fully seated beside him. 

"I’m sorry," Arthur gasps, his wet fingers curling into the fabric of Eames’ suit jacket.

Eames hushes him, stroking his back and the soft, un-gelled strands at the bottom of his skull. “I’m not cross,” he murmurs, kissing Arthur’s temple. It’s a lie, but he wants his mate to understand he’s not angry  _at him_. He summons the actor inside to believe the words, to let go of any lingering hostility because Arthur is an omega and will be able to smell any deceit, especially if he’s emitting territorial pheromones.

Arthur’s soft reply comes a second later, muffled against his lapel. “Jack is.” Eames leans back to see his face, wiping gently at Arthur’s flushed cheeks. His eyes are slightly red, and he knows Arthur must have been crying the whole time he was gone. Another wave of guilt overcomes him, extinguishing the last meager vestiges of his wrath. “He’s angry with me…about the kidnapping. That’s what we were talking about before you and Max came home.”

Eames nods once, glancing to the kitchen because, yes, Max is gone and so are the babies. On the counter rests the sandwich Max made for Jack—forgotten when Eames charged from the house, off to murder Julian. That explains the little vindictive glimmer in their first born’s eyes when he shared the news of Julian. Jack had been angry, just as Eames had been angry and unthinking, barging into Cobb’s office to—what?

He sighs deeply. Eames likes to think he’s imparted wisdom and kindness to the sprogs, and he has, but he might have taught them some bad things too.

"It’s not your fault," he says eventually.

Arthur sighs and rolls his eyes, smiling in a wounded way. “But it is. Not the kidnapping, but…I never talked to him about what happened. I thought maybe…I don’t know,” he whispers, shrugging helplessly, “Maybe he’d think it was a dream. He’d forget about it.”

Such is Arthur’s modus operandi when confronted with unimaginable horror, pain, and sorrow. He is the one strong enough to shuck off the trauma and keep moving. It’s why he’s a brilliant point man, but sometimes a confusing human being, at least to the people who never worked with him and understand that Arthur’s coldness is a survival strategy. He grew up in abusive households before entering a field where he was hunted in the process of aiding his only father figure, a deranged alpha.

Eames knows what happened in the dream. He knows an alpha henchman attacked Arthur before shooting him, and he understands why Arthur doesn’t want to think about those events. Others would poke and prod the omega, insisting he share feelings and explore his angst, but Eames knows better. Arthur quietly explores those emotions when no one else is around, and he shows Eames his vulnerability in different ways, like now. 

The first time he knew Arthur really loved him wasn’t when they had sex, or even when Arthur got pregnant and agreed to move in with him. It came later, when they made love, and Arthur fell apart in his arms. He was so beautifully unguarded then that Eames knew Arthur trusted him completely.

"He’ll be all right, Arthur," he says, wiping away another tear as it trails down his cheek.

"I feel like everything that’s happening with him is my fault," Arthur confesses quietly, leg folded in front of him so he can turn and face Eames on the couch. All the coldness and calculation is vanished from his gaze, replaced by sadness and doubt.

"No," Eames firmly interjects immediately because he can’t allow Arthur to believe that even for a second. Yes, they mucked up some things as all parents do, but they tried their best, and given that no one handed them an instructional manual about how to raise three children, he thinks they’ve done a bloody good job. Jack has some issues, and maybe they’ve contributed to them, but Arthur cannot judge his success as a parent on the fact that Jack is having problems at work and doesn’t know how to ask Selena on a date. "Everything good that’s happened for him is because of you, Arthur. You have to remember that."

Arthur is the one who worked tirelessly to help Jack with his education, and he’s the one who called in every favor with Cobb to get him this job. He’s the one who never threw up his hands and simply said  _oh well, he’s an alpha, what do you expect_? when Jack would explode in fits of anger. Who knows where Jack would be now if Arthur had done that? Probably sitting in a prison cell somewhere. Eames is an alpha too, and he was not always the best parent in those moments, when Jack was raging like a storm. His reaction tended to be matching anger with anger, while Arthur was always the mediator—a near-constant source of calmness.

Except when he was the one fighting with Jack.

It’s a rare talent for an alpha to get under Arthur’s skin, but their son has always been able to do it.

The wound must be deep because he can tell his words don’t connect with Arthur, who shakes his head, rejecting Eames’ kindness as fresh tears well up his eyes. Eames surges forward with the intent to hug his mate, but Arthur turns at the last second and kisses him. He still wraps his arms around Arthur, but he doesn’t pull away because he knows the omega is silently telling him what he needs. 

Arthur doesn’t want to talk anymore, but he still needs Eames, just in a different way.

The kiss turns hungry, Eames lightly gripping his throat to stroke the side of his neck soothingly, and Arthur whimpers into his mouth, showing, yes, he wants this. He pins Arthur against the arm rest of the couch, pressing into him and grabbing wandering hands when Arthur moves to unbutton his shirt. He holds his wrists in place, framing his head, and when Arthur moans into his mouth again, Eames knows it’s time to move to the bedroom.

So he does, with Arthur peppering his face and lips with kisses as he backs the omega towards their bedroom. Arthur is desperate, grabbing him, whispering  _please_  over and again, and Eames hushes him softly, greeting like an old friend the strange combination of desire and pain he feels when Arthur gets like this. He’s so vulnerable and raw, but if Eames doesn’t do this for him, Arthur will completely fall apart, and besides, he _wants_ to do this. He wants to be the man who gets to see Arthur in this state.

He watches as the omega disrobes quickly, uncharacteristically yanking on buttons and cruelly pulling at fabric just to get it off his body that much faster before unthinkingly casting them aside. Then he lays on the bed and waits. 

Eames is slower to undress because he wants to give Arthur a bit more time to calm down, and he also selfishly wants to watch him for a few more moments. Arthur looks back at him, totally unselfconscious even though he’s nude, and already hard. This happens a lot with him—intense pain or distress followed by extreme desire. It’s like there are some wires crossed in his brain, but Eames isn’t one to judge, and he prefers Arthur just as he is.

His face is still flushed, eyes shining, and when Eames hesitates too long, the furrow appears between his eyes. “Eames,” he whispers, Adam’s apple bobbing.

 _Right_. Eames quickly finishes disrobing, quietly impressed with the alpha part of his brain that takes over and prevents his fingers from quaking. Enough diddle-daddling. Arthur needs him.

When he kneels on the bed, Arthur is already parting his thighs, reaching up to pull him down by the shoulders. He kisses Arthur with bruising force, delighting in the whimper the action draws from the omega’s throat. He’s hard too, and is reminded for the umpteenth time that he’s as mixed up as his mate, the thought immediately followed (as it always is) by the comforting realization that they were made for each other. That’s why Arthur is wet for him, and obedient when Eames grips himself and presses the head of his cock between his cheeks, lifting his hips a bit and locking his strong legs around the alpha’s waist. They’re still kissing when he thrusts inside him, but Arthur breaks the embrace to cry out, maybe from shock, but also because it probably hurts little. “Slow…go slow,” he whispers, and Eames can feel he’s trembling under him.

"Yes," he pants, agreeing immediately and kissing Arthur again as he thrusts slowly. He wants to give his mate what he needs, but he also knows Arthur is crying again, and he doesn’t want to focus on that or he’ll lose his erection. The omega clings to him, pouring lovely, soft moans into Eames’ mouth. When Eames angles his hips differently and pushes deep, Arthur cries out again, fingers furling and pulling at Eames’ hair. He’s careful not to get rough in return, even though Arthur also enjoys that sometimes because tonight he needs something different. "I love you," he whispers, glancing only briefly at Arthur’s face, which is enough time to see the crumbling expression and the fresh tears. "I love you," he repeats, and Arthur lowers his chin to press their lips together again.

His stomach presses against Arthur’s hard dick, creating friction on every thrust, and the omega begins to leak steadily across his chest. Eames knows Arthur’s body better than his own, and he can tell by the way the omega is grabbing his shoulders and biceps with bruising force that he’s close to coming. But Eames doesn’t rush things. He keeps his thrusts paced and deep, alternating between kissing Arthur’s wet cheeks and his lips, and slowly milks the omega’s climax from him. It hits Arthur hard—his spine arched from the bed, head tilted back as he cries out and spills across his stomach. 

Eames doesn’t last much longer, since he’s physically and emotionally exhausted. He bows his head and thrusts a few more times—a bit rougher just to push himself past the finish line, but Arthur’s quiet groans inform him his efforts aren’t without appreciation. Eames arranges them so he’s pressed against Arthur’s back and spooning him as the knot begins to swell inside him. Poor Arthur is still crying, but the tears stop long enough for a look of blissful euphoria to wash across his face. Whatever terrible thoughts were whirling through his brain sail out of his head when Eames’ comes. He strokes Arthur’s stomach in slow, soothing circles, and kisses the side of his neck. Arthur’s eyes are closed and he moans quietly throughout the alpha’s climax.

Afterwards, they’re quiet for a long time, comfortably, as only two people who know each other completely can be. Arthur’s hands rest atop Eames’, their fingers laced. When he glances at the side of the omega’s face, Arthur looks calm again and he knows his mate has been busy silently packaging up all his feelings—probably in boxes with neat little labels to store them away for examination another day. If he tries to talk about it now, Arthur will pull away from him.

"Cobb wants us to come over for a bloody barbecue," Eames murmurs, his lips pressed against the back of Arthur’s head.

Arthur snorts when he laughs. “You’re kidding.”

Eames grins at the sound. “Nope.”

***

It turns out, Cobb was being perfectly serious about the barbecue thing, so Arthur and Eames show up at his place Saturday afternoon when everyone (Cobb’s kids and the sprogs) are already at the house. “Hey!” Cobb greets sunnily, looking so fresh-faced and tan that, for a split second, Eames considers being cheeky and asking if they’re at the right house. The other alpha is wearing a white dress shirt, which is extremely dressed down for him, and he enfolds them in individual hugs before hurrying them inside. “Everyone is out back,” he explains.

Arthur stops dead in his tracks the second they enter the living room. “Oh..” he says aloud, and Eames immediately understands why. The entire interior of the house has been redecorated, down to the last scrap of furniture. It looks great—more open and airy than it had appeared in the past, but that may have been because Mal’s absence hung over the entire home like an oppressive cloud. 

Cobb stops walking and follows Arthur’s gaze. “Oh yeah. Ariadne changed some things. It’s great, right?” Cobb asks, smiling with infectious enthusiasm that Eames feels compelled to mimic because, bloody hell, if anyone deserves a shot at happiness, it’s Cobb.

"Smashing," he agrees. 

Arthur is quiet, but he flashes a closed-mouth smile and nods once, which should have been Eames’ first clue that Arthur isn’t ready to socialise, especially not in such an emotionally volatile environment. But it’s too late now.

Forward into the past.

***

It’s a beautiful day, the perfect day for a barbecue, so everyone is gathered outside on the back lawn where Ariadne and Cobb have set up a table and chairs. Max and Ravi are already there, playing with the twins, who are rolling around in the grass along with Jack and Rose. They haven’t seen Phillipa and James in ages, so the first few minutes are spent catching up with them until Eames inevitably has to extract himself from the situation because James is getting a little too enthusiastic with his line of questioning. He hugs the sprogs in greeting and gets a couple squealing laughs from his grandchildren. Selena is standing with the group, nervously picking at the label of her water bottle when she smiles timidly at Eames, who last time she saw him was in a psychotic rage. Eames kisses her hand and is sure to behave extra charmingly just so she doesn’t think him a completely lunatic. “Terribly sorry about that mess,” he says.

Selena smirks. “I assumed it was Jack’s fault.”

"She always does," Jack grouses from his place on the lawn, sitting in front of his niece and nephew. 

Eames winks at her. “Good girl,” he says before stealing Ariadne from Cobb so he can kiss her on the cheek.

He then walks over to where Frank is sitting, somewhat removed from the rest of the group, and sits down heavily into the vacant chair beside him.

Frank silently hands him a beer, glances once at Arthur, and asks: “Trouble in paradise?”

He exhales slowly before taking a swig of beer, contemplating that question. Frank has this gift where it’s almost impossible to stay angry at him, even if he, say, accidentally on purpose walks in on you and your mate engaging in a bit of roleplaying. He thinks that, next to Eames and Cobb, Frank might understand Arthur better than anyone else on the planet. So if there’s anyone he can confide in…

"You’ve no idea," he says, shaking his head.

Frank squints thoughtfully. “Should he be here?”

Arthur is crouched on the lawn, smiling brightly as Max walks Charles over to him. He makes an excited exclamation when his grandson walks unassisted the last few steps into his arms.

"We’ll see," Eames finally answers.

***

They gather around the table where Ariadne and Cobb have prepared a delicious lunch spread. Everyone is using disposable paper plates, plastic forks, and red plastic cups, and the whole thing feels so deliciously suburban that Eames can’t help feeling content and weirdly nostalgic for a time that, in his case, never really existed. But it exists now, and Eames is happy, so he gives Arthur’s thigh a gentle squeeze under the table.

Arthur flashes him the same faint, uneasy smile.

He’s been with Arthur long enough to know in his bones that something is wrong, that things are going to explode to the surface, but he doesn’t know when. The tipping point comes when he, Arthur, Ariadne, and Cobb are the only ones left at the table as they discuss their various adventures in dreamshare. Ariadne had a whole life post-Inception, and pre-returning to the states to be with Cobb, and Eames can’t help feeling proud of their little Ari as she regales them with her Parisian tales. 

Cobb, who is a dreamshare encyclopaedia, laughs as he recounts their various early exploits in the business, including near-arrests. For the first time, Arthur smiles genuinely at some of the stories, and Eames foolishly thinks they might be in the clear. But then Cobb mentions finding some of the very first dreamshare technology in a box in their garage, of all places, including something Mal deemed “The Halo,” which was a pre-PASIV machine that affixed to the subject’s head. It was ridiculous and didn’t work, but this was when all of dreamshare was nothing more than a theory in the combined brilliant minds of Miles and Mallorie Cobb.

"Oh my God," Arthur laughs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I remember that thing. What an abomination."

Cobb smiles fondly, rotating the base of his beer bottle on the table, leaving moist figure eights in his wake. When he mentions the fact that he gave all of the equipment to a dreamshare museum, Eames considers it an after thought. Actually, it barely registers with him, but suddenly Arthur quickly stands up, muttering as he excuses himself, and hurries into the house. He has no idea what’s wrong, but instinctively stands up. However, Cobb gets to his feet first and shakes his head. “Let me go,” he says, in that persuasive tone that Eames never argues with, primarily because Cobb has good instincts.

He must look slightly shellshocked because Ariadne smiles sympathetically at him. “I learned to stop asking questions when it comes to those two a long time ago,” she snickers, handing Eames another beer from the cooler at her feet.

Using the hem of his shirt to twist off the cap, Eames smirks up at her. 

Truer words have never been spoken.

***

Arthur’s emotions are spiralling out of control and he’s panicking. He just needs to find a quiet room to sit in for a little while to collect himself, which is why he runs for the house. But he only gets as far as the kitchen before breaking down. Arthur clings to the counter, head bowed down as he weeps uncontrollably. It’s such a foreign feeling, being inconsolably hysterical, that Arthur’s heart hammers fearfully in his chest. He’s a master of concealing his emotions, but lately he can’t turn off the spigot. 

He knows the second Cobb comes into the kitchen—not only because Arthur smells him, but because he senses the alpha standing at his back. “Arthur…” Cobb says gently, voice filled with concern, which makes him feel silly and embarrassed. Cobb is trying to have a nice party at his home. He shouldn’t be worrying about his unstable former point man.

Between Jack confronting him and witnessing Cobb’s new life, Arthur feels…forgotten. Or if he  _is_ remembered, he’s recalled with sadness—a player in a terrible, stressful time that may or may not have contributed to things getting better. Now, Cobb wants to pack away the sad parts of his life and send them away, and Arthur doesn’t blame him. He never holds it against people who send him away.

"I’m sorry," he whispers, quickly wiping at his face, but keeping his back to Cobb.

Cobb is cautious and doesn’t touch them. Instead, he leans against the kitchen counter and quietly considers him for a moment. “You’re upset because I gave away The Halo,” he states finally, as if uttering the answer to a particularly vexing riddle.

Even as the tears continue to spill from his eyes, Arthur smirks because that’s actually just a small piece of what’s going on. Yes, he resents Cobb for giving away The Halo, but he’s also angry that all traces of Mal are being erased. Sure, Cobb kept her photos, but where is Mal’s favorite armchair, and the glass figurines she collected? Where is the smell of her perfume in the air? He knows it wasn’t healthy that Cobb was living in her tomb, but Arthur’s identity is so wrapped up in  _Cobb and Mal_  that he feels, when her remnants are given away, he is being sent away too.

Cobb has a new life now, and a new love, and a new dreamshare team, and Arthur is just someone he looks at and sees all the sadness and regret of his former life.

"I’m upset because you don’t need me anymore, Dom," Arthur whispers, uncaring if it sounds pathetic because it’s how he feels, and right now he doesn’t remember how to be guarded and detached.

Cobb is the closest thing he’s ever had to a father figure, and he’s always assumed they would have a special, indestructible bond. But right now, it feels like Cobb is a stranger, and Arthur hates it. He hates the new furniture and paint on the wall; the way he and Ariadne have their own special language with which they communicate, even though he loves Ariadne, and it hurt him to know Cobb lived alone for so long.

It’s petty and irrational, but Arthur can’t help the way he feels.

"Arthur, that’s ridiculous," Cobb says, finally stepping forward to grip his shoulders and turn him around. The alpha looks sad and a little unnerved because he’s never had to deal with a hysterical Arthur before. He’s never cried like this in front of Cobb because he never allowed himself to be weak. "It might not be like before, but you’ll always be in my life."

Anger surges inside him, flushing his face because he hates Cobb talking to him like this—in contrite platitudes high schoolers write in yearbooks. Things  _are_ different now, and it’s not like before, so how can Cobb promise it won’t get worse every year? That they won’t keep drifting apart, promising to always love each other all the while, until they never see each other anymore? First, The Halo goes, then the photos are all put into an album, kept on a dusty shelf somewhere. And if Mal goes the way of faded memory, Arthur doesn’t stand a chance.

"You don’t know that," he answers bitterly, chin bowed as he refuses to look at Cobb like a sulking child.

"I do know that," Cobb answers, a sigh in his voice that Arthur has only heard directed at other people—at difficult subordinates, and Arthur is outraged it’s being used on him, but the second surge of fury is extinguished when Cobb tilts his chin up and looks him square in the eyes. Arthur has been Cobb’s right-hand man long enough to know when the man is being manipulative, but he looks utterly sincere in the moment he adds: "Arthur, you’re my favorite. That’s not going to change." 

He’s completely unprepared for how those words destroy him, but luckily Cobb doesn’t hesitate to take Arthur into his arms and hold him while he sobs. Cobb rubs his back gently, comfortingly, patiently waiting while Arthur lets go of things he has been holding on reins inside his heart for decades. Finally, Arthur grows quiet when he runs out of tears, and Cobb still holds him, chin resting on top of Arthur’s head.

"I fucked up my kids," Arthur whispers.

His ear is pressed to Cobb’s chest so he hears him chuckling. “I know your kids. You did a great job.”

Arthur would stubbornly shake his head if Cobb didn’t have him wrapped up so tightly. “I’m why Jack is having a hard time at work.”

The rumbling sound returns. “Arthur, I don’t know what’s between you and Jack, but believe me, as adults we can only use our traumatic childhoods as an excuse for our behavior for so long. Eventually, we all either make the decision to use it as a crutch forever, or leave it behind and move on.”

He’s quiet for a long time, contemplating Cobb’s words. Arthur knows the advice is for him, but he’s also considering his friend’s life—how Cobb stood at a fork in the road where he could have played the part of tragic widower the rest of his days, or move on and find some happiness. Which is, Arthur knows, what Mal would have wanted for him.

Arthur pulls back slowly and looks up at him, red-faced and sniffling pathetically. “I’m sorry I ruined your barbecue,” he mumbles.

Cobb smiles fondly at him, cupping his face. “You didn’t ruin anything,” he says. “Just stop crying. I hate seeing you upset.”

The alpha’s expression coaxes a small smile to spread across Arthur’s lips. 

Frank opens the sliding glass door and swaggers into the kitchen, just in time to see the (completely platonic) moment of intimacy. But of course, Frank isn’t familiar with the type of sexless love that can exist between an alpha and omega in the case of Cobb and Arthur, so he assumes the worst. He immediately squints suspiciously at Cobb, who gazes back at Frank with a look of obliviousness because Cobb would never, ever think of Arthur as Frank does. Arthur rolls his eyes and smirks as they separate, even as he continues to pat at his cheeks, ridding them of excess moisture.

"I’m going to go check on everyone," Cobb says, sensing the tension in the room.

On his way past the other alpha, Frank mutters at him: “Keep your mitts to yourself, buddy.”

Cobb pauses for a moment, and shoots a confused look Frank’s way—the same expression, Arthur imagines, he would level at a talking dog, and then he simply leaves them without saying another word.

Arthur, on the other hand, doesn’t let Frank off the hook so easily. Frank tries to step around him to get to the refrigerator, probably to retrieve more beer, but Arthur gets right in his face. “I want them back,” he growls, because this is the first time he’s been alone with Frank since  _the incident_ , meaning this is the first time he’s be able to confront him.

Frank has the nerve to look at him innocently. “Want what back, sunshine?”

Which is how Frank ends up pinned face-first to the kitchen table, arm wrenched painfully behind his back as Arthur spits: “ _You know_  what. I want them back.”

"Ah!" Frank cries in pain, his free hand thrashing across the surface of the table. "Fine! Jesus, fine!"

Arthur releases him instantly, fixing Frank with his fiercest scowl so the alpha knows he means business. He loves Frank, but Arthur knows he has to draw clearer demarcations in their relationship. “You pull something like that again, and I’ll tell Eames, and he’ll show you what’s what, you understand me?”

Frank swallows thickly and nods. “Uh, yeah. Chrystal clear,” he chuckles, even throwing Arthur a mock salute, but he’s suddenly developed a thin sheen of sweat on his brow.

***

There is a type of alpha that is drawn to Arthur, and he is attracted to them in return—the kind of alphas who others consider scoundrels and criminals, but who always operate with a strangely consistent ethical code. 

Keeping with that theme, he comes home one day later in the week, and finds his underwear in the centre of their bed, folded neatly and with care.


	49. Max gets an offer

Living with one baby inside him, compared to the ordeal of carrying twins, has been a breeze for Max. He’s tired much of the time, but not to the degree of his first pregnancy, and he’s much more mobile this time around. He’s sporting a baby bump now that is smaller than it was when he was previously twelve weeks along, which means he can still bend down to pick up the twins’ toys and move around the kitchen without risk of knocking over Ravi.

But even though he’s physically capable, everyone is still fussing over him. Arthur insists on cleaning the house twice a week, and Eames prepares all of Max’s meals throughout the day, though he draws the line at his father preparing dinner. That is still Max’s terrain. 

He’s sitting on the floor, playing with the twins, while Eames prepares some delicious-smelling scramble for lunch.

"How’re you feeling, ducky?" Eames calls from the kitchen.

Max sits up straight and peeks over the top of the couch so he can see his father, who is a sentinel at the stove, dutifully pushing around the scramble with a wooden spoon, his free hand rubbing idly at the beard he’s been sporting lately. Max likes it. He thinks Eames looks like the captain of a ship. “I’m good,” he answers sunnily, and it’s true. He feels much healthier this time around, if not a bit bored.

Once the food is plated, he puts the twins in their playpen and joins Eames at the kitchen table. First forkful, Max hums appreciatively, smiling at his father, who looks rather smug in return. Eames is a master chef and he knows it. “Think it’s a beta?” Eames asks, pushing around the scramble, and spearing a bit of sausage before popping it into his mouth. When Max hums thoughtfully and shakes his head, he follows up: “Omega?” with such hope in his voice that Max smiles. Most alpha grandfathers wish, naturally, for alpha grandchildren. Only Eames would be equally pleased to have little betas and omegas running around.

He idly places a hand on his bump, rubbing as he gazes thoughtfully at the t-shirt stretched across his belly. The baby is active, even at this early stage—as energetic, if not more, than the twins had been. “Think it might be another alpha,” he says hesitantly because he hasn’t even told Ravi about the hunch. 

Of course, that secures Eames undivided attention. Brows arched comically high on his forehead, he sets down the fork and leans back in his chair, gazing squarely at Max. “ _Reall_ y?”

Max smiles shyly and nods, but as pleased as he feels, he’s also a little nervous. He’s never heard of an omega having three alphas  _in a row_ , even if he sort of cheated by having two alphas in one shot. “Is that possible? Having so many alphas like that?”

Eames is quiet for a while, stroking his beard like a wise oracle. “Anything is possible, ducky,” he says eventually.

***

He’s wearing one of those itchy paper gowns, legs swinging off the edge of the examination table. Max hates doctors’ offices because he always feels like a vulnerable little kid waiting inside them. Luckily, Ravi is with him. The alpha is examining a small model of a fetus resting on the counter. Max watches him fiddle with it until a piece breaks off and Ravi looks up at him with wide, alarmed eyes.

"Put that down," Max hisses, unable to restrain the giggle that undercuts his words.

Ravi complies and hurries over to stand beside him. “Sorry…just nervous,” he responds, smiling and bending down to kiss the top of Max’s head. 

Max’s ultrasound had come back normal—showing just one baby this time, thankfully, and more importantly, the technician was able to see the baby is a boy, so Ravi is over the moon, hence all his nervous energy. _Another boy_ , he kept repeating over and over the first couple minutes, blissful and giddy. But now they’re waiting for the more detailed DNA test, which Max did a couple weeks ago. DNA tests make sure everything is okay with the baby, and also if he’s an alpha, beta, or omega.

"Have you thought about names?" Max asks, taking Ravi’s hand so the alpha doesn’t wander off and break something else.

"My mother likes the name Taj," Ravi answers, bringing Max’s hand to his mouth so he can kiss the backs of his knuckles.

Max smiles slowly.  _Taj_. He likes it. It’s short, like his own name, but also sounds cool. Taj Lalla. “I like that. Can we give him the middle name Arthur?” he asks on a whim. He’s always felt guilty that they named one of the babies after Eames, but none of the babies carry a piece of their other grandfather.

"Taj Arthur Lalla," Ravi repeats in a pleased tone. "That’s a good name."

***

The doctor returns fifteen minutes later, cradling a file that looks like a small phonebook, and Max knows that must be the DNA sequence of the baby. “Everything is okay,” Dr. Walker says immediately because he knows Max is a worrier. “Dad and baby are both healthy, but your weight is still a little on the low side, Max.” 

Max nods slightly, unsurprised because he had that problem throughout his first pregnancy until the last few weeks when he blew up like a beluga. Eames is going to completely go nuts when Max informs him of this news—making it his life mission to fatten up his youngest with cream pastries and buttery pastas. Honestly, he’s not completely dreading his father occupying their kitchen like an invading army.

"Okay. I’ll eat more," he promises. "But is everything else okay?"

"Mhm.." Dr. Walker replies, little silver glasses perched on the end of his long nose as he reviews Max’s file. "The baby is in tip top form, and he’s an alpha, by the way."

Max draws in a sharp breath, even though he expected the news and had an inkling all along. Meanwhile, Ravi is legitimately shocked. “You’re sure?” he asks right away, and when the doctor nods, he looks down at Max, eyes widened in surprise. “Is that—I mean…is that normal?” He’s not displeased—just amazed, as Max had been when he’d first realized it might be a possibility. After all, the normal of sequence of births goes: alpha, beta, omega. Yes, occasionally there are duplicates, two alphas or two omegas here and there, but  _three_ alphas? Max has never met a family with three consecutive alpha children.

"Well, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about," Dr. Walker says, removing his glasses and folding them to slip into the breast pocket of his lab coat. Max tenses up at his words, and body language, because the doctor said everything was all right, but now he looks gravely serious. "Have you ever heard of an uber-omega?" When Max and Ravi shake their heads, he continues: "Well, in extremely rare instances, some omegas  _only_ give birth to alphas. After examining your DNA sequence, Max, I believe you’re an uber-omega.”

Max stares at him, brain whirling as he desperately tries to process the doctor’s words. Ravi recovers first, his hand supportively resting on Max’s back. “So Max can only have alphas?”

"Not necessarily," the doctor quickly adds. "All that means is the likelihood of you having alphas children is extremely high, but you may eventually have a beta or omega too. I just want you two to be braced for the possibility that Max might only conceive alphas."

He feels numb, unsure of how to feel about the news. When imagining himself as a parent, he had always foolishly assumed his progress would mirror Arthur’s: an alpha, beta, and omega child, in that order, each a year apart. But that isn’t going to be Max’s story. He might only have alphas—a house full of alpha children when he didn’t even know how to discipline Charles and Aady, and needed his father to come over and teach him about things like timeouts. “Wow…” he says finally, sighing and flashing a weak smile at Ravi.

"It’s not bad news, Max," the doctor emphasizes. "Some couples would kill to be in your position because they can’t conceive alphas."

Max nods slowly because, yes, he knows that’s true. Except, people always want what they can’t have. He didn’t realise it until this moment, but Max wants betas and omegas too—he wants more Roses and Arthurs in the world. But he reminds himself the doctor didn’t say it was impossible—just unlikely, and as his dad says  _anything is possible, ducky_. So he’s not going to be sad about the news, he decides.

"Another alpha," he says, smiling at Ravi. "That’s good news, right?"

Ravi looks relieved, probably because he detected Max’s sadness. “It’s wonderful news,” he agrees, bending down to kiss Max’s brow, which feels nice, and relaxes him further. 

Another alpha. Perhaps,  _only_ alphas.

He can do this.

***

Predictably, everyone freaks out about the news. Eames picks him up right away, and carries him around his parents’ house for so long Max begins to think he’ll never set him down, and when he eventually does, then Jack picks him up too until Arthur makes them stop and leave him alone. Rose opens a bottle of wine, and everyone but Max gets to drink and cheers the baby, Taj (they love the name), and the fact that he’s an alpha.

When Max mentions the middle name,  _Arthur_ , his dad looks like he might cry, but then Eames teases him about  _only_ being a middle name, whereas the first-born male is named after him, and carries on like such a proud rooster that Arthur ends up laughing and forgets to be an emotional mess.

Only Arthur seems to understand that maybe the fact that Max is an uber-omega isn’t welcome news. He takes Max aside, cups his face and emphasizes: “Doctors don’t know everything. They told me my hips were too narrow to have babies, and look how that turned out.”

Max smiles, dimples and all. “Thanks, dad,” he whispers, because he really, really needed to hear that.

***

Ravi has been working longer hours lately, and Max suspects it has to do with his brother, though Ravi would never admit that in a million years. His mate knows how close Max and Jack are, and hates to speak ill of the other alpha. But Jack has been in a foul mood recently, and he overheard Rose and Selena talking about a collapsed dream at Uncle Dom’s barbecue that must have had  _something_ to do with Jack, so he put two and two together. Everyone always thinks he’s oblivious, but really he’s just quietly collecting information to make decisions based on his own observations.

The result is that Ravi gets home at nine, sometimes ten o’clock, exhausted and weary. He tries to put on a brave face for the twins and Max, but he can tell, whatever the problem is, it’s wearing on Ravi’s last nerve. On Friday, Ravi stumbles through the door, places his bag on a table in the living room, papers spilling out of the satchel, walks straight to the bedroom and sleeps for twenty hours straight. He doesn’t even wake up for dinner—nor does he stir when Charles and Aady throw a coordinated tantrum and it gets so bad Max has to call Frank to come over and work his magic.

When the babies are asleep, and Frank leaves, Max busies himself tidying up the apartment, even though Arthur has explicitly told him not to. He’s not as fragile as everyone seems to think, and Max needs to keep busy or he’ll go stir crazy. He cleans up the babies’ toys, does the dishes, and then moves into the living room. Max picks up the papers spilling from Ravi’s bag and smooths the edges so they’re in a neat stack.

He doesn’t mean to snoop.

Really.

He doesn’t.

It’s just, he sees an unfinished formula on the top paper, and Ravi has written lots of question marks around it beside words like “Jack,” “dream,” and “collapse,” and Max gets curious, which is how he ends up sitting at the table, hunched over the paper as he examines Ravi’s notes. Max doesn’t know much about dreamshare, or the process of extraction, but he knows quite a lot about chemistry, and Ravi’s problem is like a riddle.

It’s actually pretty fun to solve.

And Max  _does_ solve it, in just under an hour. He writes down the compound Ravi is looking for and surrounds it with little hearts, just so the alpha won’t be mad that he invaded his privacy.

Then he continues cleaning, and truthfully forgets all about the chemistry riddle. Later that night, Ravi wakes from his deep slumber, staggers from the bedroom, and kisses Max hello. He then wanders into the living room while Max prepares him some food, which is when he calls, “Priya?” And Max nearly drops a pot because he remembers what he’s done.

 _uh-oh_.

"Yeah?" he calls innocently, widening his eyes and smiling so his dimples are on display as he walks from the kitchen into the living room. 

Ravi is standing by the table, holding up the sheet of paper with the little hearts, his face a mask of confusion. “Did you write this?”

"Um…yeah," Max says, hands dipping down to fiddle with the strings of his pyjama bottoms because he’s nervous and needs to do something with his hands. "Sorry, I know I shouldn’t have snooped, but I saw it, and…thought maybe I could help."

Ravi stares at him, then looks at the paper, and looks back to Max. “How long did it take you?”

Max shrugs self-consciously. “Dunno. Maybe..an hour?”

The alpha blinks slowly and sets down the paper. “Oh,” he says softly.

"But this is good, right?" Max asks quickly, still unsure if Ravi is mad or not. "Now you have the answer and maybe Uncle Dom will give you a promotion, or a bonus, or something." Right? He’s not really sure how dreamshare works, or if there’s even something like an incentive program.

"Yeah…" Ravi murmurs, but he’s still staring at the paper, and Max isn’t sure he’s listening.

***

Anyway, Ravi isn’t mad. They have dinner together, and even get to make out for a little bit on the couch, though Ravi is too tired for much else. Then the babies wake up, so the rest of the night is devoted to spending time with them. And when the weekend comes to an end, Ravi goes back to work like nothing has happened at all, until he returns from the office on Monday, and looks so pleased with himself that Max immediately knows something is up.

"What?" he asks, grinning, kitchen towel thrown over his shoulder.

Ravi kisses him and sets down his bag in the hallway. “Ohhh nothing,” he says cheekily, and he sticks to that lie  _for hours_  until the doorbell rings later in the evening. He looks at Max expectantly, and the omega grins, racing to the door to answer it because he’s expecting a flower or chocolate delivery, but when he throws it open Uncle Dom is standing there.

"Hey!" he says, unable to hide his surprise.

Cobb smiles and kisses Max on the cheek before entering. “Is now a good time to talk?”

"Definitely," Ravi calls from the kitchen. "I’ll feed the babies their bottles, Max. You and Cobb sit down and talk."

"O…kay," Max responds, brow furrowed in confusion. He had assumed Uncle Dom was visiting to speak with Ravi about work, or something, but it appears that’s not the case. Ravi disappears into the nursery, armed with two bottles, and Max and Cobb sit down in the living room.

"So Ravi tells me you solved a very tricky compound he’s been working on," Cobb says, cutting right to the chase.

Max’s response is silence. He’s surprised that Ravi would tell Cobb something like that, considering he could have simply taken the credit for himself. But then again, Ravi is a very ethical person. Maybe he thought taking the credit for the compound formula would have been tantamount to lying. His uncle is looking at him expectantly, and Max knows he has to say something, so he murmurs: “Um…yeah.”

Cobb smiles instantly. “Amazing. That had him stumped for a week, you know,” he chuckles, shaking his head as he gazes into the distance thoughtfully, mumbling  _Amazing_ again under his breath. Max is just beginning to think he’s going to have to ask Cobb why he’s here when his uncle snaps out of his daze and looks at him again. “Max, do you know what contracting means?” When Max shakes his head, Cobb continues: “It means I would write up a business contract between us that allows you to have an informal working schedule with flexible hours. You could come into the lab when you wanted, but primarily you would work from home, and sort of…assist when we need you.” Max stares at his uncle silently, not really understanding what he’s offering, and Cobb smiles slowly when he realizes he’ll need to be a little more literal in his offering. “I’m asking you to come work for me, Max.”

His first response is to laugh in surprise. “Me? Really?” he asks, smiling because he never imagined himself working, even though he graduated from MIT. Once he had the babies, that became such a full-time job that he couldn’t even consider a career. But then he remembers the twins. “I’m not sure I can, Uncle Dom. I mean…the kids.”

Cobb nods immediately. “I understand, but I’d be willing to pay for any additional childcare you need, or if you want to bring the kids to work, we have enough space to set up a nursery.”

It’s an extremely generous offer. Plus, he and Ravi are going to need to buy a bigger house soon, so the added income will be badly needed. Not to mention the fact that Max has been crawling out of his skin just sitting in the house day after day, and not even his outings with Pat and Arthur are easing his cabin fever. Maybe having a job will be nice, and besides, he had a fun time solving the chemistry riddle. If all of dreamshare is like that, it might be a good time.

"I won’t have to hook up to the machine, right?" he asks quietly.

Cobb smiles. “The PASIV. And no Max. I promise.”

Max smiles slowly. “Okay then.”

***

Ravi has to travel abroad to Africa to go pick up some notes on Somnacin from his Uncle Yusuf. When Max asks him why Yusuf can’t just fax or email him the documents like a normal person, Ravi rolls his eyes and says, “My uncle isn’t a normal person,” which is code for Yusuf isn’t answering his cellphone and is probably on an epic binger, so now Ravi has to  _fly to Africa_  to accomplish something that could have otherwise taken a few seconds.

But since his husband will be out of the office for a week, Max has an opportunity to go into the lab and begin working. Frank has agreed to watch the twins, and Max has obsessively been texting Ravi, even though the alpha is at the airport and should probably focus on checking his bags and finding his gate. He’s nervous about everything: what to wear, how to behave, if he should be formal with his siblings and uncle even though they’re the people he’s known since he was a baby.

 _Don’t worry, priya. You’re going to be brilliant_ , Ravi texts.

Max sighs as he reads the words.

Okay. He can do this.

***

He drives himself to the office despite the fact that Jack offered to pick him up so they could carpool. He doesn’t want the first impression everyone has of him to be that he’s Jack’s baby brother, who can’t even get to work by himself. Max is far enough along in his pregnancy where he waddles a bit when he walks, which of course Rose has to draw attention to the second he enters the office.

"Ohhh my God! You’re so cute!" she cries, rushing forward to touch his sweater-covered belly, but he can’t stay mad at her because Rose is so excited to show him around the place. First stop is at a desk where a very pretty woman is sitting. "This is Selena," Rose announces. "Selena, you remember my brother, Max."

Max smiles and waves at Selena, who he only met briefly at Uncle Dom's barbecue. And because Max has no filter, the first thing he blurts out is: “Of course I remember Selena," and because he didn't get to mention it at the party, he adds: "Wow, you  _are_ pretty.”

Selena stands and smiles in a polite, but slightly confused manner, as if trying to figure out who in the world might have described her as pretty to Max. But she shakes his hand, and respectfully answers: “I’ve heard very good things about you, Mr. Lalla, and I look forward to working with you.”

She hasn’t even finished the sentiment when Jack appears out of no where and takes Max by the arm, hurrying him away from Selena. “Ooookay, come on. I need to show you the lab,” while Rose snickers in their wake. 

"Sorry, sorry, sorry," Max winces before Jack even says anything, and right after the door to the lab, which is actually really nice, swings shut. He smiles sweetly at Jack’s fierce scowl. "I didn’t say  _who_ told me she’s really pretty, right? I mean, she doesn’t know. Don’t make me feel bad!” he whines. This is his first day at the office and Jack is already making him feel like he’s messed up.

"It’s okay," Jack sighs, folding him in a quick hug—slightly angled to the side to avoid his belly. "Don’t get upset. She doesn’t know what’s going on. I doubt Selena would understand I’m hitting on her if I stripped naked and laid across her desk." Max blinks rapidly a few times, trying to rid his brain of that image. "Anyway, this is your work space. Cobb will be in here in a few to get you accustomed to everything. Good luck," Jack adds, winking before he leaves him to get settled.

Max sits at Ravi’s desk, smiling when he sees all the framed photos of their family. The first thing he does probably isn’t that professional. He scribbles a quick love note to his mate and hides it in the desk drawer for him to find when he returns from Africa. Then, it’s down to business. Max looks through all Ravi’s notes about the trouble they’ve been having, namely with Jack, in the dreamscape. He frowns deeply as he reads about the seriousness of the problem: Jack seizing upon waking and fleeing the office, and Max begins to realise the problem is much more dire than he previously knew. He sees that Ravi has tried to fix the problem by mixing sedatives into the Somnacin, but Jack has complained that the drugs make him feel lethargic and confused while dreaming.

He’s so consumed in reading that he barely registers Cobb has entered the room until the alpha is standing right beside him. “Hey, Uncle Dom,” he says, quickly shutting the file.

"Just Cobb," he corrects, but he’s smiling affectionately.

"Oh, yeah," Max says, grinning shyly.  _Shit_. “Uh, I’ve been catching up to speed on what’s been happening.”

The playful expression vanishes from Cobb’s face and he nods seriously. “Yes, it’s been…problematic. I was hoping bringing some fresh eyes in here might lead to a breakthrough.”

Right. No pressure. Max is so nervous about messing up, and now he learns the central problem involves his brother, who he adores, and Max would never forgive himself if he failed to help him. 

Cobb gives him the rundown of how days play out at the office—two meetings (one in the morning, another in the afternoon), but most of the time they’re left to their own devices. Apparently, Ravi spends much of the time in the lab, which Max immediately understands as he gets lost in his own personal experiments. He primarily works on slightly modifying the compounds Ravi already uses—tweaking and refining, and coming up with a handful of trial samples to use when the team next goes under.

Around 2 PM, Rose pokes her head into the office to announce they’re going to hook up to the PASIV, and they want to try some of the Somnacin batch Max has been working on. Then she notices Max is wearing a lab coat—one of Ravi’s, so it’s a little long, but it fits around his swollen waist. “Ohh my God,” she gushes. “You are so adorable I can’t stand it.”

Max glares at her. “Seriously, knock that off. I’m not a teddybear.”

Rose grins wolfishly at him. “You’re  _my_ teddybear,” which is nonsensical, but it makes Max snort with laughter, which was Rose’s only goal.  

He tries not to show how nervous he is when the whole team gathers around the PASIV in the main room. Max sets up the machine following the notes and diagram Ravi left him, and everyone is kind enough not to point out when it takes a lot longer for Max to make sure he’s done everything properly. He puts the normal dosages of Somnacin into two chambers for Rose and Selena. Those vials were easy to duplicate because he followed Ravi’s notes exactly. But he slightly tweaked Jack’s vial—not with a blanket panacea of morphine, but rather a time release component of sedatives designed to gradually release into his bloody stream. That bottle is tinted blue, and he slowly clicks the vial into place, and takes a deep breath as he moves to help everyone with their IVs, another task he’s never attempted before.

Max focuses on being gentle and quickly inserting the needle when he finds the vein. Horrible memories of nurses digging around in his arm for a vein when he was pregnant and in the hospital come rushing back to him, motivating him to be extra cautious as he helps Selena and Rose. When he inserts the needle into Jack’s arm, his brother hums, impressed. “Better than Ravi,” he says, grinning cheekily at Max, but he can tell Jack is nervous.

He doesn’t blame him.

"Okay, everyone ready?" Max asks, and Rose and Selena nod, while Jack opts for a thumbs up. "Good luck," he says, pushing the button.

Cobb stays up top with Max, allegedly to supervise, but Max thinks it’s in case anything goes wrong. It’s nerve-wracking enough to see if his brother and sister are all right, let alone having Cobb there, leaning against a desk with his arms crossed, waiting in silence.

They’re only under five minutes, but it feels like an eternity.

Ravi noted in graphic detail what he should expect if Jack’s run goes badly. His brother has a habit of launching out of the chair, of being highly combative when he wakes up, not to mention the possibility of something much more serious like a seizure. Max prays that doesn’t happen. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Jack starts thrashing around. Probably freeze, then cry, and be of no help whatsoever.

Luckily, that doesn’t happen.

Instead, the time runs out and Jack opens his eyes. Cobb immediately walks over to him and waits for something…probably  _anything_  to go wrong. But Jack simply sits up and blinks owlishly. “It worked,” he whispers, staring in surprise at Cobb, then at Max. 

Cobb is the first to snap out of his daze, clapping his hands excitedly. “Great job, Max,” he smiles.

He’s too shellshocked to process the information, though. Max stares back at Jack. “Really? You felt okay? Not groggy?”

Jack grins, removing the line, and standing up. “Not at all.”

"Really?" Max asks again, but he’s smiling.

His brother doesn’t answer him again because he doesn’t need to. In a highly unprofessional moment — that Cobb allows because he’s a good man, and this is cause for celebration — Jack enfolds Max in a hug and picks him up. Max bursts out laughing, even though he’s a little uncomfortable because Jack is pressing the baby into his bladder and he suddenly has to pee. Somewhere behind them, he hears Rose cheering.

"I knew you could do it," Jack whispers to him. "I told Ravi you’d figure it out." He feels dizzy from euphoria, and he doesn’t want to ruin the moment, but Jack is going to make him cry (or pee), depending on how long this goes on. But Jack isn’t ready to let him go yet, and Max knows why. His brother hadn’t fully revealed how serious his problems at work had been. If Max hadn’t figured out the Somnacin edit, he probably would have lost his job. "Max,  _thank you_ ,” Jack says, holding him tightly. “Thank you…thank you.”

When they separate, Max is beaming, and tries to be gracious when everyone congratulates him on a job well done. 

He’s proud and overwhelmed by a feeling of accomplishment, and can’t wait to call Ravi and tell him the good news.

But before any of that happens, he hurries to the bathroom.


	50. Movie Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose invites Max, Jack, and Selena over for movie night

Max is too big to drive to the office these days, so he freelances from home. They’ve converted the living room table into a work space that both he and Ravi use, even though the twins are walking now, and sometimes wander over and yank papers and pens off the table. Max will be toiling over a particularly tricky formula and suddenly see a chubby fist appear in his peripheral — usually Aady — seconds before everything topples to the floor. But these obstacles aside, working from home has been great for Max, so Jack doesn’t want to  _complain_ , per se. It’s just that he’s gotten used to seeing his brother in the office, and for once having an ally against the unholy force that is RoSelena (that’s how he derisively refers to Rose and Selena’s friendship — not to their faces, mind you. He’s not an idiot), someone who has his back during arguments, debates, etc.

Because he misses Max, Jack has been spending his lunch breaks at his brother’s house, even though it’s totally out of the way and the commute alone eats up most of his break. It’s worth it, though, because Max seems to genuinely enjoy having someone to fuss over besides the babies, and also having another adult he can talk to during the day. Ravi is back from Africa, but he’s backlogged at work because of his departure, so he’s spending longer hours at the office, and Max works at home to help him play catchup. 

Jack splays across the couch, arm folded behind his head as he listens to Max clamour around the kitchen, preparing their lunch. “You sure you don’t need help?” he asks again, gaze lingering on the skylight as a bird sails way above the house.

"I’m good," Max answers, turning the knob on the stove, and the gas flame clicking to life. "How’s work going?"

"Great," he answers honestly. Work has been a breeze ever since Max discovered the proper Somnacin balance for Jack that sedates him just enough to stave off the panic attacks, but still permits him to work. His forges have been better than ever, and even infamous sticklers like Uncle Dom and Selena have had nothing but glowing praise for his work. So, yeah, work has been…great. 

Except. Sometimes he gazes across the room and Selena will be examining some papers, and she’s wearing her Serious Concentration face, which means her brow is slightly furrowed and she frowns in a not entirely unadorable way, and Jack gets so distracted that sometimes five…ten minutes have suddenly passed, and he realizes he’s  _staring_ like a total creeper, and thank God no one has noticed yet, but that can’t go on indefinitely. Eventually,  _someone_ is bound to notice he’s watching Selena with eyes the size of small planets.

"How’s  _Selena_?” Max asks, putting all kinds of salacious emphasis on the point woman’s name.

Jack snorts. “Shut up. Selena is the same. Oblivious to my presence.”

He sits, then stands, walking over to the kitchen so he can flop down at the table and actually see his brother as they talk. Max has segued to the cooking phase, and whatever he’s sautéing smells delicious. His brother pushes around the noodles, veggies, beef, and garlic around the pan as it the oil hisses. “She’s not  _oblivious_ , Jack. You just haven’t wooed her,” he says, glancing over his shoulder, and rolling his eyes when Jack stares blankly at him, clearly clueless. “Like, what are her interests?”

 _Interests_? Jack stares at Max like he’s gone crazy. How the hell is he supposed to know that? They’re work colleagues. They barely interact during the day, outside of instructive notes and informational memos. Hardly intimate stuff. “I have no idea.”

"Well, okay," Max sighs. "Then what’s her background? Where did she grow up?"

What the hell is Max on about? Why does any of this stuff matter? He’s an alpha and Selena is an omega. Jack has never put in this kind of labor beyond strutting confidently past his omega target. If she’s really stubborn, maybe offering a charming smile, a bit of witty banter. This feels like he’s preparing for a job. “Max, I don’t know. Why the hell would I know this?” Then an idea occurs to him and he stares at his brother, a little alarmed. “Did Ravi know this stuff about you before you guys met?”

Max does this thing lately where he smiles with wisdom, like Jack is being an unreasonable little kid. It’s super annoying because Jack is the eldest, and just because Max has a healthy, happy marriage, and will soon be a father of three doesn’t mean—well, anyway, he shouldn’t  _act_  like he’s superior to Jack. “Of course,” he laughs. “He knew about my interest in science, and had read up on me winning the fair, and it was nice. I could tell he was interested in  _me_ , as a person. Not just because I happen to be an omega.”

He slumps back in his chair, frowning at Max’s back. Suddenly, he feels dumb for having never considered this strategy— _getting to know Selena_. Yeah, that might work. “But it’s Selena,” he grouses. “She’s a robot. I doubt she even socialises with us work drones outside of the office.”

Now it’s Max’s turn to look at  _him_ like he’s gone insane. “What are you talking about? She hangs out with Rose all the time. They have movie nights on Fridays.”

Slack-jawed, Jack stares at Max silently as his brother switches off the burner, then plates the food, and even as he waddles over to the table and sets down their plates. Finally, he snaps out of it. “ _What_? What the hell is movie night? Have  _you_ been to movie night?”

Max sitting down is always a bit of an ordeal, so he doesn’t respond for a bit as he gently descends, and then exhales loudly when he’s in place. It’s just Jack, so Max doesn’t pretend to put on airs, and instead balances the plate on his belly, so he doesn’t spill noodles everywhere. “Of course,” he finally says, rolling his eyes when Jack gapes at him, outraged. “It just _came up_. We were at the office, talking about movies, and Selena said, ‘hey, you should come to our movie night,’ so I did. It’s not like we were actively working to exclude you.”

Jack forgets there’s a delicious meal sitting in front of him because he’s just so  _outraged_  about all of this. His shock has no effect on extremely pregnant, ravenous Max, however. The omega eagerly spools the noodles around his fork and shovels the food into his mouth as quickly as he can manage. Hungry, pregnant Max is a force of nature. Jack is always careful to steer clear of him when he’s eating, lest he lose a finger.

"I gotta say," Jack finally mumbles, "I’m  _outraged_ ,” and he is. He’s outraged. And Max should know this fact. Rose knows he has a thing for Selena, and here she’s been running this perfect vessel that could help him get to know the omega a little better, and she’s been jealously keeping it from him. 

Max shoves a heroic portion of stir-fry into his mouth, rolling his eyes as he chews and swallows. “Don’t be outraged. Just come over on Friday. I’m sure Rose will be psyched to have you. You just always carry on about how tired you are at the end of the week. I’m sure she thought you’d rather be resting.”

He sullenly picks up a fork and twirls it in his hand.  _Fine_. He’s going to do just that. He’s going to crash movie night.

Just to see the stupid look on Rose’s face.

Jack spears a piece of beef.

***

Friday rolls around and Jack goes home after work to change into a pair of jeans and a collared shirt, top three buttons left undone. Feeling cocky and vindictive, he purchases a medium-priced bottle of wine and drives over to Rose’s apartment—second floor of a new complex where everything is white and clean lines. Very Arthur. Smirking like an asshole, Jack knocks on her door, and counts down the seconds until he sees Rose’s dumb, shocked face.

But when his sister opens the door, she smiles brightly. “Hey! You made it!” 

Which throws off his whole game plan. He ends up slowly handing her the bottle of wine as she ushers him inside, and when he sees Max and Selena sitting in the living room, he nearly trips over a rug in the hallway.  _Fucking Max_. He probably filled Rose in on everything. In fact, Max’s apologetic smile tells him that’s  _exactly_ what happened. His only bit of fortune appears to be the fact that Max didn’t tell Selena about their conversation because the omega looks surprised when he walks in. “Mr. Eames,” she says, but then smiles, which is nice because Selena never usually smiles at him like that.

"Hey," Jack mumbles, flashing a smile before turning to face his sister. "Can I talk to you for a second?"

He corners Rose in the kitchen when she’s innocently searching for a corkscrew to open the wine. “I know I have a couple, but one is in the dishwasher,” she mutters obliviously.

Suddenly, she looks up and Jack is looming over her. “ _Movie_ night?” he hisses accusingly.

Rose rolls her eyes. “Ohh my God. Is this going to be a thing? Yeah, movie night. We occasionally watch movies together. Is that a crime?”

Most betas would probably be intimidated to have an angry alpha in their space like this, but Rose looks like a bored horse swatting away a fly. 

"Well, I thought  _maybe_ you’d inform me considering…you know,” he stutters.

"Your big fat crush on Selena?" she asks, smirking when Jack turns beet red. "I didn’t think my movie night would move that along, honestly. But then Max brought it up, and I figured maybe it would help you pull the trigger. Hence, you being here—ah-ha!" she cries, after pulling open the correct drawer and finding the corkscrew.

Jack sulks as he watches his sister open the bottle and then pour three glasses, which is more like six because the wine glasses are the size of his head. The bottle is empty when she’s done, and then she fills the fourth (Max’s glass) with orange juice. “So, what’s the deal? You guys watch _Bridget Jones’s Diary,_  eat some Breyers, and cry?”

Rose glares at him. “When have I  _ever_ watched  _Bridget Jones’s Diary_?” she asks, handing him a glass.

Jack shrugs and takes a sip—for courage. “I don’t know. I don’t know how this works,” he mumbles into his glass. Jack doesn’t have many friends outside of his immediate family, and all of his previous female friends were fuck buddies.

Rose hands him another glass, and then picks up the other two. “Selena likes post-apocalyptic movies—stuff with zombies, explosions, stuff like that. We’re going to watch  _Children of Men_. I think she’ll like it.”

He blinks slowly, trying to reconcile his image of buttoned-up Selena with a blood-hungry moviegoer. “That’s going to scare Max,” he says idly.

Rose smirks evilly on her way out of the kitchen. “I know. It’s going to be hilarious.”

***

Max lasts ten minutes before he makes his way to the couch and curls up against Jack, hiding his face against his brother’s shoulder. But it’s not like the old days. When Max was little, they’d have to turn scary movies off because he’d get so worked up. These days, it’s clear Max wants to  _try_  to watch stuff outside of his comfort zone, but he’s still a bit spooked. He’ll peek at the screen every couple of seconds, see something horrifying, gasp, and hide again. “Tell me when the scary part is over,” he mumbles against Jack’s arm.

"You mean the whole film?" he chuckles, glancing at Selena who grins at him.

"Shut up," is Max’s pouting response.

Selena laughs, a bright, sparkly sound that makes Jack feel lighter. “We can watch something else, Max.”

"No, no," he says, waving in the general vicinity of the TV. "I can do it."

Jack notes that Selena calls him Max outside of work—not Mr. Lalla. She does the same with Rose, but not for Jack. Jack is still  _Mr. Eames_. He wonders what that means.

He’s been doing that a lot—thinking of Selena, instead of focusing on the film. He’ll space out, and when he comes back down to earth, Clive Owen is running from crazy motorcycle gangs, or explosions, or angry hordes and armies, and it’s all very exciting, but he can’t focus because he keeps thinking about the fact that his is the only name Selena refuses to say.

Is it because she doesn’t feel close enough to him, or that saying his name is too intimate and that frightens her?

The thought completely distracts him and warms his face.

Finally, the film ends and Jack sets his empty wine glass down on the coffee table. “So what now?” he asks, watching as Rose gets up to pop the DVD from the player. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Selena scoot onto the edge of the couch and reach for his glass, which she nudges towards the centre of the table so it’s parallel to the bases of Max and Selena’s glasses.

"We could watch another movie," Selena volunteers, looking past Jack to Max. "Why don’t you pick this time, Max?"

His brother visibly brightens at that, smiling as he leans forward. “What are my options?”

From her place in front of the TV, Rose picks up a DVD box and waves it in the air. “Nemo?” she asks, grinning playfully because that was the film she and Max would watch on loop when they were little kids, driving Eames insane until he could quote the movie line-by-line. 

Max bursts out laughing. “Oh my God. Totally. We have to.”

Popping the DVD into the cradle, Rose skips ahead to the menu and then casts a meaningful look at her brother, and while Jack knows the look means  _something_ , he doesn’t know what because Rose and Max have always had this obnoxious ability to communicate silently. “Can you help me pour some more wine in the kitchen, Max?” she asks, brows raised slightly, an obvious indication she wants to speak to Max privately.

"Sure," Max says, already trying to wiggle to the edge of the couch so he can get his feet secured to the floor and stand up—probably with an assist from Jack.

But before he can stand, Selena springs up. “I can help,” she says, the silk of her blouse billowing slightly, hair pouring down her back in soft-looking waves that distract Jack for a bit—long enough for the women to disappear into the kitchen, leaving him alone with Max.

“ _What_  are you doing?” Max hisses.

Jack blinks, and is surprised to find his brother glaring daggers at him when he turns around to face him. “What?” he answers obliviously, brow furrowed. He doesn’t know why Max could possibly be angry at him. He’s been on his best behavior all night. In fact, he hasn’t even said anything inappropriate or sexually aggressive because he wants to impress Selena.

"You’re not interacting with her," Max says, frowning. "You’ve barely said two words to her."

And now it’s Jack’s turn to get angry, though he keeps his voice lowered in a hushed growl. “Well, what the hell am I supposed to do with you two breathing down my neck?”

Max rolls his eyes. “Oh, so it’s our fault?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Jack hisses. He’s never had this much trouble getting the attention of an omega, so it  _must_ be Max and Rose’s fault. They’re just making him nervous, is all. If he was alone with Selena, he’d feel much more comfortable. Of course, that would entail asking Selena on a date, and he’d rather be shot dead than suffer the misery of being rejected by a woman he’ll have to see every day. But still. This is most likely entirely the fault of his siblings. “You’re putting crazy pressure on me. You two are worse than Arthur and Eames. Just let me do my thing.”

"What’s  _your thing_? Sitting there like an idiot?” Max mutters.

And if his brother wasn’t extremely pregnant, Jack would have most definitely put him in a headlock for that remark.

***

Rose had planned to pull Max into the kitchen to discuss their brother’s woeful attempts at wooing Selena, but then that arrangement went to hell the second Selena volunteered to help in the kitchen. Worse, Rose doesn’t have a second bottle of wine, so even though she has her head buried in the refrigerator under the guise of searching for more booze, it’s going to be completely obvious she’s lying in a matter of seconds. But she’s trying to buy some time to think of a way to lie her way out of this awkward moment.

Luckily, she doesn’t need to because the second she closes the door, Selena is standing right behind her, eyes slightly wild as she whispers: “You have to help me.”

She immediately looks over Selena’s shoulders to make sure there aren’t armed men standing in her kitchen because Selena never looks rattled, and certainly never panicked, but she’s both those things now. “Uh….sure,” Rose answers warily.

Sighing heavily, Selena slumps against the kitchen counter and groans miserably. “I don’t know what to say to him.”

Rose stares at her for a long time. “Jack?” she says cautiously, wandering over to the sink and feeling a little like she’s wading into a black hole. She’s not quite sure how to navigate through this conversation because in all the time she’s been trying to imagine how to set up Selena and Jack, it never once occurred to her that Selena might be pining for her brother too. Rose briefly contemplates blurting out that Jack’s probably been having wet dreams about her for months, but then an image of Jack’s furious face fills her brain, and she scraps that plan. “You like him?”

Selena moves to stand in front of her, looking so miserable and dejected that she knows it’s a serious crush. “Yes, and I know it’s awful. I know office romances always end badly, and I thought it might go away if I ignored it,” Selena whispers, glancing furtively towards the door that connects the kitchen with the living room, as if expecting Jack to come crashing through the archway at any second. She looks back to Rose eventually and frowns. “But it hasn’t.”

Rose sighs deeply, stretching her arms out as they brace against the counter. She feels a little light-headed from the wine, but other than that, she’s entirely too sober to have this conversation. “You need to tell him.”

Which apparently was a really dumb thing to say because Selena looks horrified. “ _No_ , you cannot say anything. Rose. I’m serious,” she whispers, though her voice has more than a hint of desperation. Rose knows what she’s imagining: rejection, belittlement, Jack carrying on like a cocky asshole because he’ll now have this thing he can permanently laud over Selena whenever they have even the most minor disagreements. Selena is an omega, and therefore has had to fight to earn Jack’s respect, and if her brother knows she has a crush on him, all of her careful work will have been for nothing.

But what Selena doesn’t know is Jack is in love with her—so much that he’s made himself sick trying to deny his feelings. And Rose cannot share that news because it would be a direct violation of her brother’s trust.

Sigh.

"Okay, okay," Rose whispers, gripping Selena’s arms comfortingly because the poor creature looks like she’s going to faint. "Selena, everything will be okay."

***

Rose is going to have to fix everything, as usual.

While Selena might be a point woman in their business, Rose feels like she runs point in the Eames family. Whenever Max or Jack, and sometimes even their parents, are acting like fools and causing themselves unnecessary stress, it’s Rose who steps in to arrange events that will lead to the alleviation of the problem. Sometimes her family members don’t even notice her work, but that’s the best indication of a successful point woman—one who is neither seen nor heard, but simply swoops in to fix everything and then disappears.

Both Jack and Selena are stubborn, proud fools, very reminiscent of Arthur and Eames, but they lack an unexpected pregnancy to force them together.

Rose is going to have to do it for them.

Sure, they might be pissed at her, but she prepares herself for that possibility as they gather their things at the end of the night (after  _Nemo_ has finished) and prepare to exit the apartment. She hugs Max, thanking him for coming, and he forces a happy smile onto his face even though he keeps glancing at Jack, waiting for his older brother to find his courage and interact with the woman he’s been pining over for what feels like forever.

There comes a moment where the four of them are lingering by the front door, clearly waiting for a final  _goodnight, see ya_ , or whatever, and Jack keeps looking at Selena just as she’s looking away, and vice-versa, and it’s just too unbearably tragic, and so Rose blurts out: “ _Fuck_. Jack, Selena likes you. Selena, Jack has a crush on you too.  _Work it out_.”

Max freezes, eyes huge and visage pale as he looks nervously at Jack as if expecting his brother to fly into a blind rage, but Jack simply looks stunned. She can almost see the wheels turning in his brain as he processes Rose’s words, and he finally looks at Selena—really looks at her, not in the shy way from before, but squarely and openly. “You…really?”

Looking like a cornered rabbit, Selena gazes back at him and nods slightly. “I…yeah.”

More silence.

Rose rolls her eyes. “Soo..maybe you guys should go on a date or something, yeah?”

The prompt is enough to coax Jack back to the land of the living. He shoots a hostile little glare at his sister—its meaning clear: fuck off, I’m still an alpha. But his gaze softens when he looks back to Selena, who still looks skittish, at best. The omega looks blindsided enough that Rose would feel mildly guilty, if she hadn’t facilitated the fruition of Selena’s wildest dreams. Jack inhales deeply, stands up straight, squares his shoulders, and Rose mutters a mental  _attaboy_. “I’ll pick you up next Friday at eight. I know a nice place you’ll like. Sorry,” he says, glancing to Rose. “You’ll have to reschedule movie night.”

Selena smiles slowly, a soft expression that makes her look much younger. Jack mirrors the expression, and it’s nice because he looks relaxed, slightly goofy, and very happy. “That can be arranged,” she says, answering for Rose.

Which is okay. 

Movie night can indeed be rescheduled. 


	51. The First Gushing Incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames: the first gushing incident
> 
> totally NSFW, obvs

Early in the first pregnancy, Arthur is bedridden much of the time, alternating between sick and lethargic. But there is a window of robustness around the time he develops a small potbelly when suddenly Arthur wants to do everything at once: decorate the nursery, get the house sorted, and also go out before he “blows up to the size of a small planet,” in his own words.

It’s February, so Eames immediately begins making Valentine’s Day plans. There is a meek, shockingly conservative voice in the back of his head that constantly notes he’s made a mess of things—impregnated Arthur before marrying him properly, bringing a child into a world where terrible men like them commit crimes, and shoot guns, and sprinkle the earth with general acts of debauchery and terror. He ridiculously believes that, if he carries on like a romantic fool and lavishes Arthur with enough love and chocolates and flowers, none of the other awful things he’s done will count. Sort of like a cosmic do-over.

Eames finds the most opulent, over-priced, elitist restaurant within a fifty-mile radius and makes a reservation. He has already prescreened the menu, and adores the list of exotic ingredients and small plate sizes, and knows Arthur has a preternatural ability to detect elegance, and will also approve of his choice. Then he books an opera box for a well-reviewed production of  _Troilus and Cressida_. Eames has been to the opera house before, and he knows the boxes provide an advantageous view of the stage, and also  a high degree of privacy if Arthur is suddenly seized by the desire to snog.

Because that happens a lot with Arthur these days. Eames can’t believe he ever harboured an opinion of Arthur that included words like  _stuffy_  and _prude_  because, in actuality, nothing could be further from the truth. Yes, some of it has to do with the vast quantities of hormones pumping through Arthur’s body, but Eames also has the sneaking suspicion his buttoned-up little point man is also something of a secret sex kitten. Such is the strange nature of their relationship that they have suddenly been thrown together, and haven’t had the opportunity to explore each other’s boundaries yet, but Eames has been around the block a few times, and his instincts are usually right about these things.

Just in case, he doesn’t wear underwear to the opera.

They don’t have sex in the opera box. (That doesn’t happen until years later when Arthur, pregnant with their second child, gives him a spectacular blow job during the climatic scene in  _Carmen_ , which Eames ranks as the best blowie he’s ever had). But they do make out for a long time, missing half the second act, Arthur half-sprawled across his lap, and Eames’, cock straining against the front of his Hugo Boss slacks, grinding against his hip. Arthur is heavier these days, but in a nice way that makes him feel warm and alive, and Eames keeps rubbing his hand against the vest stretched across his distended belly. 

An usher finally drops by to tell them to knock it off, and Eames is momentarily confused about  _who in the world_ could have ratted until he sees an elderly couple scowling at them in the box across the floor.

Eames waves at them as Arthur grabs his elbow and drags him out of the box.

"I feel like we just got in trouble at school," Arthur laughs when they’re standing outside, waiting for the town car to come pick them up. The omega’s face is flushed (from embarrassment and their snogging session), and he’s smiling brightly, dimples and all.

Eames can’t stop grinning cheekily and staring at him. That’s always been a problem for him—staring at Arthur, but he’s allowed to do it these days without Arthur pretending he doesn’t like it, or Dominic Cobb clearing his throat to bring him back to earth. He pulls Arthur close again, partially enfolding the omega in his coat, the firm swell of his stomach pressing against him. “I would have chased you in school…if I’d known you back then,” he murmurs, leaning forward to kiss his warm mouth again, Arthur’s bow lips still pink and swollen from before. 

"You wouldn’t have liked me back then," Arthur whispers, his breath warm against Eames’ wet lips. They’re standing so close together that Eames can see every detail of his face—each freckle on his cheeks and line around his eyes. "I was a nerd…very quiet."

Eames’ hands find their way to Arthur’s hips, holding him in place. In his periphery, the town car turns into the drive and pulls up to the curb, but he’s still looking at Arthur. “I would have liked you,” he insists.

***

They don’t end up eating much at the restaurant because they’re too busy drinking (Eames) and flirting (Arthur), and then Arthur asks him if he wants to go home, but it’s only 7 PM, which can only mean one thing.

Eames pays the bill as fast as humanly possible, calls the car, and gets them back home in thirty minutes.

Arthur is on him the second they walk through the front door—kissing roughly and pawing at Eames’ expensive suit and coat, pulling and yanking at layers. His jackets falls off in the hallway, and Arthur has his dress shirt half-unbuttoned by the time they reach the bedroom. “Bloody hell,” Eames gasps, laughing at the devilish gleam in Arthur’s eyes. 

"You look really good," Arthur breathes against his neck before he shoved his hands down the front of Eames’ slacks and grips his cock.

_Well, hello._

This is Arthur’s modus operandi—fast and passionate, not that Eames has any complaints. He gets hard just looking at Arthur, so he’s always ready to go, but he suspects the omega’s method is a byproduct of inexperience. Arthur probably thinks “real sex” is penetration and knotting, and nothing more. Tonight, Eames aims to teach him a different way. He gently grips Arthur’s wrist and pulls his hand out. “Go wait on the bed,” he whispers, kissing his brow.

Panting and flushed, Arthur stares at him disbelievingly for a second before he gives an adorable little huff and obeys. He’s still wearing his suit (sans shoes) when he sprawls out, and Eames is somewhat grateful because his alpha brain tends to short-circuit whenever he lays eyes on Arthur’s baby bump and little breasts. “C’mon…I’m really horny,” Arthur groans, but Eames ignores him. With the barrier of Gucci between them, Eames can still think rationally, and luckily Arthur is perhaps too over-sexed to realise he could easily demolish Eames’s careful plans by simply disrobing and presenting his pert rear.

"We’re going to do something different tonight," he remarks calmly as he sheds the rest of his clothing, leaving his suit in segments on the bedroom floor. He stands naked at the foot of the bed and Arthur, the little minx, tries to hook his foot around the back of Eames’ leg to pull him closer, but he swats him away. "Naughty," Eames remarks, pushing the hem of his trouser leg up to massage his calf. 

Arthur exhales loudly, groaning a little when Eames rubs the muscles. His legs have been sore lately from carrying around extra weight. The omega allows his gentle ministrations for approximately thirty seconds before he hooks his legs around Eames’s waist and yanks him forward so Eames collapses atop him. He laughs in surprise and Arthur moans when his weight crashes into him. “Careful,” he growls, shifting his wait onto his hand so he’s not crushing Arthur’s stomach. “You all right?”

"I’m  _fine_ ,” Arthur replies, a little hotly, “If you’d just get to it already.” Then he leans up to kiss Eames with bruising force, coaxing a moan from his throat. This is usually how Arthur tricks him into skipping lovely foreplay, but Eames isn’t going to play that game tonight. But for the sake of subterfuge, Eames pretends to comply. He dutifully helps Arthur shed his layers: slipping the tie over his head, parting from his mouth to kiss the slivers of flesh exposed to him as he unbuttons his collar, and then the rest of his dress shirt, across the gentle swells of his breasts. Eames dips lower to kiss Arthur’s baby bump and hipbones when he pulls down his trousers, and he’s about to ask the omega what kind of strange underwear he’s sporting when his thumb snags on a strip of elastic and accidentally snaps it against Arthur’s thigh.

"What the hell?" Eames blurts and he instantly feels Arthur tense beneath him.

A second later he realizes Arthur is wearing garters.  _Arthur. Garters_. Eames is so stunned that he can’t speak, and Arthur interprets his shock as rejection. “Are you mad?” Arthur asks softly, and he sounds so scared that Eames instantly feels sick. “I don’t have to—I can take them off,” Arthur continues, trying to sit up, but Eames beats him, surging forward to pin him to the bed by the wrists. Arthur’s eyes are huge and he looks completely freaked out, which makes Eames want to ask him why in the world he thinks Eames, of all people, would judge him? What happened in the past to make him think his mate would laugh at this kind of brave disclosure? But then again, Eames isn’t sure he wants to hear that story.

"You had those on all night?" he growls, unnecessarily because  _of course_ Arthur would have had to be wearing them all night, but he’s just trying to make sense of everything. When Arthur nods hesitantly, Eames furrows his brow. “How long have you been doing this?”

"A while…" Arthur answers vaguely, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.

"On the job?" Eames asks, flashing back to all of Arthur’s lovely suits. He tries to remember if the point man’s trousers fit him oddly, but no, there was never any sign that Arthur might have been wearing frilly knickers under his business attire. Around this time, Arthur seems to glean that Eames is not horrified by this discovery, but rather intrigued. He smiles slowly and nods—just once. Eames inhales sharply like the omega just sucker punched him. "Garters? Or other things too? Do you do it a lot?" Eames blathers, eyes widening when he thinks of something else. "Do you ever wear heels?"

Arthur laughs softly, flexing and unflexing his fingers until Eames remembers he’s got him pinned down and lets him go. He reaches up to cup Eames’ face, fingertips running along his cheekbones slowly. “Do you want me to wear heels?”

An image of Arthur wearing stilettos burns into his brain—his long legs, calf muscles coiled and flexed.  _Bloody hell_. Arthur seems to be aware of the effect the conversation is having on him because he raises his hips and grinds their erections together, again trying to spur on Eames so he’ll forget to go slow and instead rut his mate with wild abandon. And he’s tempted to do just that. Eames had not predicted the garters, and he has to tip his hat to Arthur for very nearly derailing his plans.

But he’s not ready to surrender just yet.

"Don’t move," he says, shimmying south so he’s kneeling on the bed between Arthur’s spread legs. Eames yanks off his slacks the rest of the way, revealing the tights stretching from the garter belt to the top of stockings stretched across Arthur’s thighs and legs. Eames swears quietly again, taking in the sight of him, cursing his stupid brain for not noticing that Arthur wasn’t wearing normal socks. He had thought, perhaps, they were some kind of thin, posh dress sock, but no…they’re definitely women’s stockings.

"You like it?" Arthur asks, still sounding a bit unsure.

"You look bloody sexy," Eames says immediately, wanting to permanently squash the note of doubt in Arthur’s voice. The omega smiles brightly, and looks so relieved that Eames immediately leans down to tenderly kiss the inside of his thigh. "Just lay back, love. I’ve got you," he says, and Arthur looks like he’s about to ask Eames what he’s up to when the alpha reaches up and pulls down the black panties beneath his garters. As he unhooks the belt to pull Arthur’s panties the rest of the way off, Eames wonders how many different colors and cuts Arthur’s knickers come in.

All these years he’s spent agonising over perfecting his forgers of women, including their clothes and undergarments, and he could have just consulted Arthur.  _Darling, when you hit the town, do you prefer to wear a thong?_

When Eames dips down between his legs, Arthur’s sweet scent slams into him and he moans quietly. But before Arthur can question him, or coax the alpha into fucking him, Eames buries his face between his cheeks and thrusts his tongue into the omega’s wetness. Arthur cries out, fingers curling into Eames’s hair, grabbing the strands and yanking roughly, but he doesn’t stop or pull away. Eames’s wager that Arthur has never had anyone perform oral sex on him appears to be paying off because the omega is trembling uncontrollably already, to the point where Eames has to reach up to pin his hips to the bed just to keep him in place as he begins to thrust his tongue in and out of him. “Oh,  _fuck_ ,” Arthur whines, thighs a vise around his skull, ensuring that he’s entombed in the omega’s scent. Eames moans happily, even when Arthur gives the hair at the top of his head another pull. He releases Arthur long enough to grip the omega’s cock and give it a few strokes, timed to match the thrusting of his tongue. “Ah!” Arthur cries, the muscles of his thighs quivering.

Eames seals his lips around Arthur’s entrance, greedily drinking him as the omega’s wetness departs in rivulets. He pulls back only to take a deep breath, kiss Arthur between his legs, and then push his tongue back into him. Eames has never tried this before with Arthur—not just tasting him in this way, but taking his time building towards Arthur’s orgasm. The omega’s body is responding differently—little waves of pleasure rolling through him, occasionally causing his whole body to tense, and there is a desperate tone in Arthur’s voice he’s never heard before. “Eames…” he moans, but he sounds slightly worried, like he’s not quite sure what’s happening.

Naturally, Eames interprets this as encouragement, or a challenge, and recommits himself with abandon to making Arthur come with his tongue. The more Arthur moans, the faster Eames pistons, curling and lapping expertly because he likes to imagine himself a bit of an aficionado at foreplay, and he wants Arthur to understand there is so much more to sex than just Eames’s cock buried in his ass (as lovely as that part is).

His hands slide up the swell of Arthur’s belly and cup his breasts, thumb pads running across the hard nipples, and Arthur cries out again, more wetness streaming from him and coating Eames’ tongue and chin. The omega tastes different now that he’s pregnant—sweeter and more potent, and the taste alone is making Eames’s cock leak steadily, drops of precum sliding down the shaft.

"Eames…" Arthur moans again from above, sounding a little unsure, as if he’s warning the alpha. He’s panting deeply, his entire body covered in a slight sheen of sweat.

He comfortingly strokes Arthur’s stomach and thrusts his tongue deep, which is when the omega’s hands fly down to his head, fingers fiercely grabbing at his hair, and Arthur  _screams_. The sound alone would have gobsmacked Eames had it not simultaneously been accompanied by a flood rushing from Arthur and washing across his face. Eames’s first reaction is to pull back and cough in surprise, eyes wide as he falls back onto his heels and stares at Arthur.

 _Well, that’s interesting_.

The omega looks  _wrecked_ , flushed and breathless, but also freaked out because, right, what the hell was that?

"That happen often?" Eames sputters, groping around until he finds Arthur’s dress shirt and uses it to wipe off his face. And he knows Arthur is definitely on a different plain because the omega doesn’t even bat an eyelash, or grouse about how  _disgusting_  that is, or how he’ll have a lot to explain to the dry cleaner later. 

Arthur shakes his head weakly. “Never…happened before,” he replies quietly.

Eames grins wolfishly. “Just with me, ay?”

Rolling his eyes, Arthur slowly moves onto his elbows. “Yeah, yeah. Jesus…” he says, staring at his ruined shirt as Eames balls it up and tosses it aside. “Is that normal?”

He shrugs casually, still very much aware that the both of them are hard—despite Arthur’s spectacular orgasm and the subsequent chatter. “I’ve heard it happens…It’s nothing to be ashamed of, love.”

Arthur squints suspiciously at him. “You’ve  _heard_  about it, huh?” he mumbles, a pout already forming on his lips. “Not from first-hand experience?” he asks, glaring hostilely at Eames.

Slowly ascending the omega’s supine figure, Eames grins and kisses between his breasts. “No,” he says, pressing another kiss to his collarbone as Arthur’s body gradually relaxes beneath him. “Not from first-hand experience,” he adds, truthfully, because Eames has never been with an omega who gushes. But he’s heard stories. However, those tall tales didn’t prepare him for what it’s actually like. Arthur’s wetness is apparently something of an aphrodisiac because Eames suddenly feels like he’s just received a b12 shot. He feels strong, achingly hard, and is possessed by the mad notion that if he doesn’t fuck Arthur immediately he’s going to die.

Arthur apparently is no longer angry at him because he eagerly turns over onto his hands and knees, and Eames helpfully supplies a pillow for Arthur to stick under his hips so the poor sprog won’t be crushed during their rutting. They don’t speak as Eames presses into him until his hips are flush against Arthur’s ass, and then the omega exhales loudly and moans: “Fuck.”

 _Indeed_.

Arthur is tight, and soaking wet, and Eames has to summon every brain cell to focus on the task of  _not coming_ the second he pulls out and presses in again. He sits back on his knees, grips Arthur’s waist, and sets a rough, steady pace that the omega seems to like because he’s  _wailing_ beautifully. “Come again for me, love,” Eames gasps, extraordinarily proud that he’s able to speak at all. His finger tips travel north to trace along the arched column of Arthur’s spine and his thumb dips into the dimples above his ass. From behind, Arthur doesn’t look pregnant, and Eames briefly wishes he’d insisted on the omega bottoming from the top so he could see his stomach and breasts.

"Oh God…" Arthur moans, bowing forward to gain some leverage against Eames’s rough thrusts, his cheek pressed to the mattress so Eames can see one half of his flushed face. The omega’s brow is furrowed as though each stroke is just barely on the right side of the pain-pleasure continuum. But just when he’s feeling like a cocky stud, Arthur lobs another fastball surprise his way when he suddenly blurts out: " _Daddy_.”

Eames nearly falls off the bed. 

When the rhythm of his thrusts falters, Arthur’s eyes fly open and he glances, worried, up at Eames. “Fuck!” Eames shouts, and the omega tenses around him. “Say that again,” he growls, grabbing Arthur’s waist fiercely and fucking him hard.

"Ah!" Arthur cries, another wave of moisture pouring from him. " _Daddy_ ,” he moans. “Oh fuck, so good,” he whimpers, fingers gripping the sheets so he can thrust backward to meet his hips, the word spilling effortlessly from him now _._

It’s one of Eames’s proudest accomplishments in life when he makes Arthur gush a  _second_  time, this time as he ejaculates across his stomach and the sheets. Eames is close behind him, his orgasm slamming into him the second the omega tenses around him. He shouts, slumping forward, temporarily forgetting that, up until that point, he’s been very careful not to press Arthur’s stomach into the mattress. They collapse to the side, somewhat removed from the soaked patches of the sheets, and Eames wraps his arm around Arthur’s baby bump, stroking the swell lovingly.

"That was good?" Arthur asks softly.

Eames kisses right below his ear, wondering how in the world Arthur could even think Eames didn’t enjoy himself—until he realizes the omega is probably asking about the revelation about his various kinks, and not the sex itself. “Very good,” Eames answers comfortingly, peeking over Arthur’s shoulder to witness the relieved smile break out across his mate’s face.

"I didn’t want you to think…I’m weird, or something," Arthur confesses quietly.

Eames runs a hand along Arthur’s side, down to the loose straps of the garters, his fingers playing idly with the bands. “I like that you’re weird,” Eames says. After all, they’re both odd—former criminals, bruised and broken, Eames with his overt kinks, and Arthur with his hidden ones. “We’re made for each other,” he adds, wrapping his arm around Arthur’s waist tightly again when the omega begins to squirm against him as the knot reaches its widest girth. He holds Arthur in place, whispering softly to him, kissing the side of his face.

"I love you," Arthur manages to say, even though his every muscle is tense in expectation of what’s about to happen.

When Eames fills him, Arthur looks so genuinely happy that his heart swells in response. He presses close to him, the alpha burying his nose and mouth in his hair, eyes shut so he can focus on how Arthur feels and smells. 

"I love you, darling."


	52. Eddie and Pat reconnect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another kinky prompt. All my readers are total pervs and I love them. Featuring: Eddie and Pat and them breasteses.
> 
> Also NSFW.

Work has been a bloody mess these days, and while Eddie loves his job and finds it rewarding (mentally and financially), he feels consistently drained and exhausted. Fortunately, he has a wonderful mate who still greets him with a bright smile and his favorite cocktail the second he walks through the front door after a long commute home. Pat really is a ray of sunshine, even though Eddie knows he must be fatigued too since he spends his days at home with Abby. But he never shows his bone-weariness, instead opting for a cheery disposition—always asking Eddie how his day was first, forever insisting his day was obstacle-free.

He’s a little saint. 

It’s pouring during his drive home Friday evening, a good thing according to the radio because they’ve had so many months of drought. Sitting in the car in bumper-to-bumper traffic beneath the dark skies, rain pounding against the windshield, Eddie’s eyelids feel heavy, and his legs drag a bit once he’s home and trudging up the walkway. In the ten seconds he’s exposed to the elements, the rain soaks his coat and sags the brim of his hat. He knocks heavily on the door and waits a couple seconds before Pat opens the door and immediately starts fussing over him.

"Oh, Eddie, honey. You’re soaked. C’mon, baby. Let me take your jacket and shoes. Stay there. I’ll get your robe," he says in one long sentence, disappearing before Eddie even has a chance to object (even though he secretly likes being fussed over like this. It’s the one perk of his long, miserable drive home). Pat disappears with his jacket, hat, and shoes, and Eddie stands awkwardly in the foyer in his socked feet.

He smiles suddenly when Abby’s coos resonate from the living room. “Is that my little dove?” he calls, grinning when she squeals upon hearing his voice. Pat appears a moment later, carrying his slippers and robe. “You’re an angel,” Eddie sighs, stooping down a bit to kiss him, and then slipping into the warm accessories. 

"Tough day?" Pat asks, already moving into the living room. This is their usual routine: Eddie returns from work, Pat makes him a drink, they talk in the living room and play with Abby, and then Pat makes him dinner. It’s been like this ever since the baby was born, and while Eddie is grateful for the comforting schedule (and he needs it to preserve his sanity), he looks forward to the day when Abby is a bit more independent and he can whisk away Pat for a date in the city like they used to do.

He flops down onto the couch with a grunt. “Total rubbish. Difficult client,” he answers vaguely because he hates bringing this kind of negativity home—to his sanctuary, where Pat and Abby, and everything good, lives. His words don’t match his expression, though, because Pat has handed him a lovely gin and tonic and is now in the process of plucking Abby from her swing. He smiles brightly, the thrilled look mirrored on his daughter’s face when she sees him.

"Look who’s home," Pat sings, smiling as he sits down beside him on the couch and angles Abby so she can see him. "There’s daddy. She was asking for you all day," he explains. Abby has begun to call Eddie  _da_ , and when she wants him, she kicks her little feet and shouts:  _dadada_ , over and over until he appears before her. Eddie feels a pang of guilt, but quickly reminds himself that he only goes away to provide for the family, and in comparison to his own father, who rarely involved himself in trivialities such as  _parenting_ and  _family_ , he’s practically father of the year.

"Hello, my love," he coos, setting down his drink on the side table so he can properly hold Abby and give her his undivided attention. As usual, Abby’s eyes widen and she smiles broadly the second Eddie’s face fills her vision. For the first couple months, Abby looked at him like he was some kind of strange, exotic bird, but these days she’s overwhelmed with happiness whenever he’s near her. Pat says it’s because she’s figuring out who he is—that she knows he’s different somehow, but she hasn’t quite pegged down in what way. Right now, Abby seems impressed by him and everything he does. That will change one day, but right now, Eddie is the best alpha in the whole world, and he plans to savour that status. Eddie tickles her tummy and grins when she giggles, then looks over to Pat who is watching them with a serene expression on his face. "How was your day, poppet?"

"Good," Pat replies, smiling. Such is his usual response:  _good_ ,  _fine_ , _uneventful._  Pat is never one to complain, and he always puts his family ahead of himself. It’s one of many reasons Eddie tries to spoil him rotten, namely because Pat never asks for anything for himself.

"We should go on a date soon," Eddie says, squinting thoughtful until Abby kicks her feet, indicating he’s fallen behind on daddy-daughter duties. He immediately returns his gaze to Abby and tickles her belly again. Cue pleased giggles. 

Pat grins. “That’d be fun. Maybe next week? I can call the sitter to see if she’s free.” When Eddie looks over to Pat again, it’s apparently one transgression too many because Abby whimpers, and then begins to cry. He feels momentarily terrible until Pat sighs and holds out his arms. “Don’t worry. She’s just hungry. It’s her dinner time and she knows it,” he says, carefully cradling the fussing baby as he expertly manoeuvres to unbutton his shirt and push aside the fabric so Abby has free rein to latch onto his breast. 

It’s quite literally one of the most natural things in the world, and something Eddie has witnessed a thousand times, but for whatever reason—maybe the long ride home, or the fact that he’s been too exhausted the past few days to make love to Pat—this time his gaze lingers on the omega’s exposed chest in a not-entirely-wholesome way. Which is sick because his daughter’s feeding, for God’s sake. His face immediately burns in shame and he quickly looks away when Pat catches him staring.

The omega smiles slowly. “Or…maybe sooner?” he asks teasingly. “I can call Frank. Max swears he’s a good sitter.”

"No," Eddie answers sharply. He might be sex-deprived, but he’s not a fool. He just doesn’t trust that sketchy alpha, no matter what Max, and Arthur, and Eames claim. But when he looks back to Pat and his exposed breasts, which are on the small side, but pert and lovely, he might look a little pathetic and longing when he adds: "Maybe Arthur can watch Abby?"

Abby hears her name, but doesn’t respond because she’s occupied going to town on Pat’s right breast, her little hands occasionally reaching up to give it a squeeze for good measure. Lucky sprog.

Pat smiles, but kindly doesn’t point out that Eddie must look like a desperate man leering at him. “That’s a good idea. I’ll ask him tomorrow,” he says, cheeks flushing a bit when Eddie looks pointedly at him. “Or tonight. I’ll call him tonight.”

Eddie nods slowly. “Tonight is good.”

***

Arthur is a glorious angel and Eddie officially decides not to believe any of the nasty things Mama says about him because he says they (he and Eames) can watch Abby all of Saturday, which means they can go for a date in the city and then have all night to themselves at home. 

Eddie makes a reservation for the restaurant he took Pat to on their very first date all those years ago, and he doesn’t tell Pat where they’re going, though the omega quickly figures it out when he recognizes the various turns Eddie takes downtown. A wide smile breaks out across his face and he sighs, “Eddie,” which is all he needs to say to indicate he knows, and he’s pleased.

 _The Chateau_ looks exactly the same, and Eddie tips the maître d’ a bit extra to secure their old table located in front of the floor-to-ceiling windows that look out onto the gardens. Unlike last time, Pat is wearing a stunning suit that was bloody expensive, but worth every cent because he looks radiant, and Eddie feels more than a little smug because he senses a few alphas turn their heads when they past the other tables. The multiple layers of designer garments subtly hide Pat’s breasts, and though Eddie hasn’t consumed a drop of alcohol yet, he feels a bit drunk on the knowledge that the twin mounds are hidden beneath his jacket like a sweet secret, waiting just for Eddie when they get home.

Basically, he’s being a pervert inside the sanctuary of his brain, but he doesn’t feel guilty about it because Pat starts playing footsie with him under the table almost as soon as they sit down. It’s a bit uncharacteristic for Pat, being so overtly flirty in public like this, but Eddie understands. It feels like a very long time since they were able to be intimate, and Pat’s hormones must still be going mad since having the baby. He leans over and kisses the omega, who sighs happily in response until their waiter arrives and discreetly clears his throat.

***

After dinner, they drive home, and when they walk through the front door, Pat slips off his jacket as he says, “I can make you a nightcap.” But when he tosses aside the jacket onto the armrest of the couch and turns around, Eddie crowds up against him, grinning wolfishly.

"Nope," he says before sweeping up Pat and throwing him over his shoulder.

Pat squeaks and bursts out laughing in surprise, squirming as Eddie carries him down the hallway. “Eddie!” he exclaims, laughing when the alpha accidentally steps on one of Abby’s toys that squeaks in objection and he swears beneath his breath. Pat continues to giggle the whole time even when they’ve entered the bedroom and Eddie has placed him gently on the edge of the bed. “I can walk, you know,” he says, grinning as he kicks off his shoes. 

Smirking, Eddie sheds his coat and slips out of his shoes and socks. “Where’s the fun in that, though?” he answers, removing his jacket and loosening his tie. When he turns to face Pat again, the omega is reclined on the bed on his elbows, watching him with a soft expression on his face. Sometimes Pat likes to watch him undress first, a desire the omega never overtly expressed, but which Eddie has nonetheless figured out through observation. A vain part of him enjoys the attention, and the fact that his mate is still attracted to him after all these years. So Eddie takes his time removing his tie, and then unbuttoning his shirt, grinning when Pat’s eyes go a bit glassy as he watches. 

When he’s wearing only his slacks, Eddie slowly walks toward the bed and Pat responds by entirely reclining onto his back and exhaling as the alpha stands just in front of him. “I missed you,” he murmurs, and Eddie instantly knows what he means. They see each other every day, but they haven’t had time to do this in a while, and physical connections are a very important part of being mated, especially after the birth of a baby. They need to re-establish their bond, not just for their own selfish pleasures, but for the sake of the family’s cohesion. 

"I know, love," he responds, reaching down to help Pat slide out of his socks, and then to watch his favorite part—the omega unbuttoning and sliding out of his dress shirt. Pat smiles up at him, handing Eddie the shirt and then laying out on the bed and arching his back a bit as he stretches. He tosses aside the garment, hands resting on Pat’s waist and unbuckling his pants to slide them off his hips, which the omega obediently raises. Pat looks lovely nude, still sporting some of the pregnancy weight that gives him all of his voluptuous curves, and Eddie instantly reaches up to cup his breasts and give them an affectionate squeeze.

They must still be sensitive because Pat moans softly and arches his back again. Pat reaches down, fingers fumbling as he opens Eddie’s pants and yanks them off his hips, and the alpha can feel his heart already beating hard under the pressure of his palm. When the pants and his boxer briefs pool around his ankles, Eddie steps out of them and gradually kneels on the mattress between Pat’s legs, hands still lovingly fondling the omega’s breasts. Though he’s smiling, Pat doesn’t tease him about his obvious infatuation, and Eddie thinks it must be because he’s enjoying Eddie’s ministrations as much as he does doling them out. Eddie runs his thumbs over the hard nipples, giving them a little flick that makes Pat inhale sharply. “Eddie…” he breathes again, wriggling his hips, and when he looks down, he sees Pat is hard and the curve of his rear is already wet.

He lays down slowly, torso forcing open Pat’s thighs, lowering his weight incrementally until he’s resting flush against him and Pat exhales against his cheek. They haven’t been able to make love in missionary position for a long time because of Pat’s pregnancy belly, and he savours the moment for a while, stretching out his limbs and twining their fingers together so he can pin Pat’s hands above his head and allow the omega to feel that he’s completely dominated. Pat loves this part as much as Eddie and moans softly, his chest now rising and falling rapidly as he pants for breath, each inhale sending his breasts pressing into Eddie’s chest. He leans back slightly so he can press a kiss to each mound and then Pat’s lips.

"Eddie.." Pat moans again, his legs wrapping around the alpha’s waist, pulling him in insistently, asking without words. He rubs his cheek against the side of Pat’s face, nuzzling and kissing along the flesh, the stubble lining his jaw leaving red patches on the omega’s pale skin. Next, he splays kisses along Pat’s collarbone and his shoulder, his mate softly chanting his name the whole time, until finally he reaches down and grips himself, pushing the head inside Pat’s warmth. "Oh…" Pat moans softly, in surprise and pleasure, his hands immediately latching onto Eddie’s arms, squeezing the muscles of his biceps.

He has to look away from Pat’s face for a moment, just until he pushes in to the hilt, his gaze fixated on the far wall as he breathes slowly. The omega trembles beneath him and Eddie feels another wave of moisture leave him, coating Pat’s thighs and his pelvis. Eddie kisses his forehead and experimentally draws back his hips and thrusts forward, Pat crying out, his crossed calves raising a little higher on the alpha’s back. When he bows his head to kiss Pat’s clavicle, the omega’s scent washes over him and he groans deeply. Eddie shifts his weight onto his hands and bucks between Pat’s spread legs, hips finding a swift, rough rhythm that sends the omega rocking beneath him, his breasts bouncing slightly and distracting the alpha until he stoops down and attacks them with his mouth. 

Pat cries out again when Eddie sucks a nipple between his lips, fingers gripping his hair, pulling slightly, but mainly anchoring the alpha in place as his hips slap against Pat’s rear. “Oh God..Oh my God…” Pat whines beneath him, Eddie’s cock making a lewd wet sound as it plunges into him. He pulls back only to devote the same attention to the other breast, lips sealed around the nipple and his breath washing the sensitive flesh as he grunts and pants. He knows the pace is right when Pat’s breasts are bouncing steadily, the rhythm only interrupted by Eddie’s hands and lips. The more insistent his lips and tongue, the louder Pat gets, and the omega doesn’t pull him off until Eddie tastes the first drops of milk.

Pat’s cries take on a desperate edge, and when he starts clawing at Eddie’s shoulders and back, he knows the omega is close. He forces a hand between them and grips Pat’s cock, stroking it quickly, thrusts turning deep and rough. They’re going to leave marks on each other—love bites across Pat’s breasts and claw marks peppering Eddie’s back, but it feels too good to stop, or to ask Pat to mind the journey of his nails. 

When Pat tenses beneath him and warmth rushes between their stomachs, Eddie knows he’s coming, and he watches his mate’s face and the blissful expression wash across his features as he thrusts into him. Pat looks at him, eyes glassy and cheeks flushes, and Eddie bends down to kiss him. Their lips seal together and Eddie’s groan are muffled when he nears his climax. He pulls away from Pat only to rearrange them on the bed in a comfortable position for the knot, the omega’s back pressed to his chest, Eddie’s arms wrapped around his waist. Pat strokes his forearms and hands, still moaning as the knot begins to grow, and Eddie kisses along the side of his throat through the worst of it, comfortingly murmuring to his mate when it grows painful.

The white sheets are spotted with a few drops of blood—nothing dramatic, but Pat sees it (and Eddie knows he sees it when he gasps softly). He hushes him, kissing his cheek soothingly. “It’s my back, not you,” he explains, knowing the omega might first think something tore inside him during sex. 

Pat makes a soft, sympathetic noise and laces their fingers together. “Poor baby. M’sorry,” he whispers sweetly, inspiring Eddie to smile and nuzzle him affectionately again. 

"Worth it," Eddie responds, and he means the words, even if he’s grinning cheekily when he says them and his hand reaches up to cup and squeeze Pat’s breast. "Want to go again later?" he whispers, rocking his hips gently.

Pat moans softly, turning slightly so Eddie can see his profile and smiling face. “Mm..sure..” he moans softly, lips pliant when the alpha leans down to kiss him.

After the knot softens, Eddie stills holds him in the same position, occasionally kissing Pat’s blond locks or his neck so he can breathe in his scent. The truth is, Eddie loves Abby and Peter more than his own life, but he needs moments like this where he’s alone with Pat. The foundation of everything—before his children, job, and every success—was the moment he laid eyes on Pat and thought  _yes, him._

Nothing else can be good if he doesn’t have these moments with his mate. 

He doesn’t think it makes him selfish or a bad father if he pines for these brief vignettes when life is like it was before—just him and Pat, totally in love, living for only each other. This is what being a mate is: blind devotion to one’s partner, consumed by the desire to please them. And it goes both ways. Outsiders might examine their relationship and incorrectly assume Pat is slavish in his loyalty to Eddie, but Eddie does not return the favor. Nothing could be further from the truth.

Eddie lives for his Pat and has since the moment he first saw him.

"We’ll do this more," he decides right then and there. Date days need to happen more often, because Pat deserves them.

He doesn’t have to look at Pat to know he’s smiling.


	53. Arthur and Eames encounter an abusive alpha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur and Eames encounter an abusive alpha.
> 
> The role of Benjamin is played by Ben Whishaw

Eames swings by the grocery store to pick up more ingredients because lately Max has been consuming food at an alarming rate. Ravi is at work and Arthur stays at home with their son, primarily because he is extremely pregnant (eight months along now), but also because Eames is partially concerned if left unsupervised he might try to lure the neighbourhood children into their home to eat them. 

 

Armed with a list and his cellphone, which he occasionally utilises to text Arthur and Max questions about what he should get (Arthur recommends vegetables, Max explicitly threatens him for donuts), Eames wanders up and down the aisles, piling items into his cart.

 

He's just wrapped his fingers around a box of powdered donuts nearby Sam the butcher's station when Eames spots two men huddled together in front of the dairy section. They're not shouting, but he can tell from the way the tall blond man has his fingers locked around the smaller bloke's wrist — and the emphatic whisper with which the former addresses the latter — that they're arguing. They're several feet away from Eames, but he determines after a quick inhale that they're an alpha and omega pairing. 

 

The alpha towers over the omega, shaking him by the arm once to emphasize whatever point he's making. Meanwhile, the omega bloke keeps his gaze downcast, obviously knowing the drill to play possum, which lets Eames know this isn't the first time the alpha has chewed him out in public.

 

He frowns, watching.

 

This isn't his first encounter with an abusive alpha. He's met his fair share, particularly in the military, but he's always hated weak men who desperately search for strength in cruel acts against the vulnerable. Eames might be a former liar and cheat, but he likes to think he's always had a kind of moral code — clear demarcations that he refuses to cross, no matter how big the pay off. Now that he's a mate and father (and grandfather), that code is even more solidified.

 

Eames has never struck an omega out of anger, and he detests men who do.

 

He stares daggers at the alpha bloke, praying the man will look up, catch his eye, and say something — anything — to give him the excuse.

 

Unfortunately, the man doesn't look up. He simply throws down the omega's wrist and storms off, leaving the poor sod standing in front of the rows of cheese. 

 

Eames isn't quire sure how to play this. It would be highly inappropriate to approach the omega and speak with him — a major faux pas, but also unwise. If the wanker is already this worked up, seeing another alpha speaking to his mate would not end well. And the last thing Eames wants is to cause the poor boy more pain.

 

Instead, he tosses Max's donuts into the cart and casually approaches the butcher counter. "Heya, Sam. All right?" he asks, grinning.

 

"Hey, Eames," the butcher replies, pausing in the midst of slicing a ham, and wiping off his hands on the front of his apron before reaching across the glass window display to shake Eames's hand. "What can I get you today?"

 

"Nah, m'good, mate. I have a question about that young man over there," he says, doing his best to be discreet as he nods in the omega's general vicinity. "Who's his mate with the bad temper?"

 

Sam casts a glance in the dairy section's section and winces. "Oh yeah. That. Bad news, man," he says, pretending to wipe down the counter as he sighs. "I try not to sell to that guy, you know?"

 

Eames hums in understanding. No, he imagines not. "So it happens often?"

 

Sam shakes his head sadly, indicating he doesn't enjoy thinking about it. "Yeah. He's usually pretty banged up. I always try to ask how he is, but he never talks." 

 

When Eames looks over to the omega, the young man is standing in the exact same spot, dark head bowed as he cradles two packs of cheese. He's clearly pretending to be busy until his mate decides to stop the punishment and comes back to fetch him. The realization is like a punch in the stomach because Eames recognizes that kind of dependant quality. Max used to be that way, following Arthur from room-to-room, clinging to his leg like an anchor because he was so terrified of being left on his own.

 

What kind of alpha takes advantage of that fear to win an argument?

 

Eames desperately wishes Arthur was here because he'd know what to do — the exact right way to approach the young man without spooking him.

 

Alas, his mate is miles away, so it's up to him to make the first contact. He thanks Sam and wanders over to the dairy, mindful to keep his posture relaxed and gaze lowered passively. But eventaking those precautions, Eames can smell the omega's fear ratchet up when he pauses directly beside him. For the first time in ages, Eames wishes he was still a young, clean-shaved alpha donning a suit. That version of Eames might have an easier go of charming a nervous omega. But these days, he sports a beard, and shops in a t-shirt, tats exposed, (plus lots of charm necklaces) and jeans that have seen better days. 

 

He's a tad intimidating.

 

Eames dares a glance at the omega, and standing this close, he can see the young man's face is indeed bruised — the largest a dark purple mark encircling his eye. The sight of it spikes his anger, and he must instantly emit a strong wave of pheromones because the omega suddenly (and quickly) sets down the cheese and hurries away. Before Eames can even open his mouth, the omega is gone, disappeared down one of the grocery aisles, no doubt in search of his mate.

 

_Bollocks._

 

***

 

"Did you get my donuts?" Max asks, hurrying over to the tableful of bags, sticking his nose in each one until Eames, smirking, approaches and shows him the right one. 

 

"Yeah, ducky. Here," he says, placing the white box into Max's eager hands.

 

Max makes a relieved sound and leans forward (and turns a bit to the side, huge stomach narrowly avoiding a collision) to kiss Eames on the cheek. "Thank you!" he gasps, waddling off to maul the box in private on the living room couch as he watches his shows.

 

An amused smirk balances on Arthur's mouth as he unloads the groceries and files them away in their correct places. Eames joins him, but must look somber or distracted because Arthur soon pauses and looks at him. "What happened?" he asks pointedly, effortlessly able to read the alpha's face after decades of practice.

 

Eames sighs in relief that his long, national nightmare of having to keep news to himself has ended. He tells Arthur everything, every detail, including his indecision about the proper protocol. He swears that their days dodging internationally-wanted criminals were easier than dealing with suburban drama. For example, if these were the bad, old days, he would have walked up behind the alpha and shot out the back of his head, but he's fairly sure their local grocery store disapproves of such behavior. 

 

Arthur frowns deeply the whole time, brow furrowed in the severe way that means he's making very precise calculations. He quietly processes everything then asks: "How old is he?"

 

Eames shrugs helplessly, feeling more and more like a wanker that he's left the poor omega in the clutches of an abusive mate. "Not sure. Max's age, I suppose."

 

Arthur slowly sets down a can of tomatoes on the table and hums thoughtfully. He's silent for a beat before declaring: "We have to help him."

 

The alpha stares at him. _Right_. He supposes a piece of him always knew that would be Arthur's diagnosis, but still the declaration stuns him. "Uh, yes, my sweet. Except, I tried to approach him and he fled like a spooked deer."

 

Without batting an eyelash, Arthur waves his hand and replies: "That's because I wasn't there" in that same insufferably confident (and not entirely unappealing) way he used to shoot down his ideas in front of Cobb and everyone.

 

And just like it was decades ago, when they were both still young men chock-full of pride, his face warms and he offers his best condescending smirk. "Oh yeah? And who are you? The omega whisperer?"

 

But Eames's life is better these days, so instead of just offering sarcasm and latent hostility in return, Arthur drags him forward by the front of his shirt and kisses him square on the lips before replying: "Yeah, that's me."

 

***

 

Naturally, Arthur wants to do reconnaissance. It's ridiculous, really: here they are, weeks away from Max's due date, and Arthur decides to sit outside a grocery store _with binoculars_ and monitor the entrance on the off chance the couple returns to do a bit of shopping. 

 

Eames points out the stupidity of this plan multiple times until Arthur has heard enough and silences him with a single question:

 

"What if it was Max?"

 

Which just isn't playing bloody fair, is it? Max is Eames's heart, and if any man laid a hand on him, he'd rip out their throat, no questions asked. Luckily, Ravi is a dove, one of Eames's absolute favourites, and he knows for a fact the other alpha would die to protect his son and grandchildren. So no need to fret on that front, but _still_. Just the idea of it makes him feel ill, and if he was to be completely honest with himself, it was also his first thought. After all, the other omega is brunette, slight, about Max's height and (pre-pregnancy) weight. 

 

Of course he sees his son when he looks at the lad.

 

But he'll die before he admits Arthur is right, so instead he mutters inarticulately and hunches down in his seat, arms sullenly crossed. Arthur, the minx, smiles victoriously and peers through his binoculars again.

 

Frank and the sprogs are filling in for them in the meantime on what they've collectively begun to call "Max Duty," which means making periodic donut runs, rubbing the omega's ankles, and watching his shows with him. Max will be cared for, but Eames still wants to be with him, not parked in a lot, waiting for an awkward confrontation, and yet Arthur makes a compelling case for why they should stay.

 

Whoever this lad is, he doesn't have people to look out for him, and Eames happens to know another omega who grew up in those exact circumstances — the dark-haired, fierce beauty seated beside him, staring at the grocery store with all the intensity of an assassin.

 

Yes, Arthur cares about this mission because in a parallel universe it might have been Max, but this is also even more personal for him. Eames gets that, which is why he keeps quiet the rest of the stakeout. 

 

On the third day, the couple returns. 

 

At first, Eames can barely believe it's them. He sits upright suddenly, gaze intense, and Arthur immediately knows something's up.

 

"That them?"

 

Eames's fingers curl on the door's handle. He waits until the moment he's absolutely sure.

 

"Yeah."

 

They're out of the car in a second, across the parking lot and inside the store in under ten seconds. He follows Arthur's lead, trailing behind him as they walk along an aisle that Eames knows for a fact he's selected because it runs parallel to the column the other alpha and omega are currently ascending. The alpha is talking to the lad, and Eames only hears the tail end of it: "Just _don't_ embarrass me this time."

 

Arthur stops at the end of the row and casts a glance over his shoulder. "He sounds charming," he remarks, cautiously peeking around the corner to monitor the couple.

 

"Told you," Eames says as he gazes over Arthur's shoulder. 

 

He watches as the alpha makes clipped, gruff demands and the omega obediently picks up the items he's pointing to and places them in a basket. The lad is thin, just shy of scrawny, and this time he's sporting bruises on his arms, just above the knobs of his elbows, as though someone violently grabbed him. 

 

The situation is dire. This alpha, despite being a total tosser, obviously has hooks in his mate. Once mated (or bonded), it's very difficult to pry apart an omega from its alpha, even if that alpha happens to be abusive. 

 

Eames decides they're probably going to have to abduct the omega — bag him and bring the lad to a secure location where they can work on breaking the bond.

 

But just as Eames is trying to remember where he last left his ski mask, the alpha walks away from the young man, leaving him unattended. That's when Arthur steps from the aisle and begins walking towards him.

 

" _Arthur_ ," Eames hisses, casting furtive glances alone the perimeter to make sure the alpha can't see them, and rushes after him.

 

This is absolutely mental — the worst possible way to approach the situation. They can't be this blunt and forward or there's going to be a brawl in the middle of the grocery store. He thinks about grabbing Arthur, but reconsiders it at the last second. The only thing that would turn this from bad to worse is if they cause a commotion and frighten the omega a second time. Eames is all for a big, flashy plan, but this is madness. Whereas he is willing to push the pedal to the floor in the right time and place (abandoned lot, late at night, no witnesses), Arthur is a wild card. He's just the type of manicured lunatic to approach an omega when their jealous, violent mate is mere feet away. 

 

However, experience has also taught him that Arthur doesn't do anything unless he's convinced it will work, so he decides to trust and hangs back a moment, watching as Arthur comes to a stop beside the young man.

 

"Hello," he says, smiling without showing his teeth so as to not intimidate the other omega.

 

The young man looks up sharply, but he doesn't run away as before. This time, he eyes Arthur a moment and murmurs: "Hi," the sound barely audible from where Eames is standing (partially obstructed by a large display of water bottles).

 

Arthur eyes his face for a moment. "That's quite a shiner you have there," he observes, gesturing at the omega's battered face.

 

"Oh…" he replies, touching his face and offering a self-conscious smile. "Yeah, I ran into a door."

 

It's such a weak excuse that Eames finds himself rolling his eyes, which he supposes is another reason that it's better Arthur is the one speaking to the young man. The omega simply smiles and nods, as if accepting that reasoning, but then he adds: "If he's hitting you, it's wrong and it's not your fault."

 

The smile instantly drops from the omega's face and Eames instinctively checks the aisles again, waiting for the alpha to emerge and charge towards Arthur. He can already visualise his response — running in, the double leg takedown, pummelling and not stopping until he stops moving. That's always been Eames's style: loud and brash, whereas Arthur prefers to keep things neat. 

 

"I don't know what you're talking about," the young man whispers, inching away from Arthur.

 

They've reached the end of today's progress, and Arthur immediately recognizes it, so he produces a business card from his pocket and presents it to the omega. "I'm Arthur. I can help you. Hide that from him, but call me when you decide to leave. We can keep you safe."

 

The poor lad is still holding the card, mouth agape, when Arthur turns and walks away. Eames follows him back down an aisle — just far enough so they can take cover and watch as the alpha appears about thirty seconds later. Before the alpha can see it, the young man pockets Arthur's card. The second this happens, Arthur smiles and resumes walking down the aisle, back towards the entrance.

 

"So what now?" Eames asks once they're in the parking lot.

 

Arthur jangles his keys and smiles. "Now, we wait for his call."

 

***

 

Lately, it takes a small army to help Max. Someone has to watch the babies (usually Frank or Ravi) while someone else (Arthur or Rose) cleans the house and runs odd errands, and finally there's the cooking crew. This is the territory of Eames, and occasionally Jack (the lad tries, bless him, but he's not very talented in the kitchen). If it was left to Jack, Max would be eating nothing except peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

 

So Jack contributes by sitting with Max and amusing him with stories from work, or comments about whatever is on TV, or sometimes just acting like a fool.

 

Unfortunately, Jack also has to work, so oftentimes Max is left on his own while Arthur and Eames bustle around, performing various tasks. He peeks over the back of the couch and asks questions because he's probably bored out of his mind. To keep him occupied, Arthur shares the details of their grocery store job.

 

Max takes the news gravely seriously, as if the abuse has happened to a dear friend of his. He's always been a sensitive young man. "You think he'll call?" he asks, craning his neck so he can see Arthur as the omega tidies up the living room area where Aadita has wreaked her havoc. The babies are somewhat mobile now, which means they leave a trail of destruction wherever they wander in the house.

 

Arthur sighs, stacking some magazines and bits of mail. "I hope so."

 

Their youngest frowns and nods, thoughtfully staring off into the distance. "That's so awful. I can't imagine how scared and alone he must feel." Arthur pauses cleaning and looks across the floor to Eames, who has also stopped prepping the ingredients for dinner and stands just inside the kitchen's entrance, hands on hips as he gazes at Max. The graveness of the situation is heavy resting on their shoulders until Max adds (with a smile): "You did the right thing, though. Now he knows there's somewhere to go."

 

***

 

The young man never calls.

 

He simply shows up one day at their doorstep, midway into a mumbled apology when Arthur throws open the door and gasps in surprise. "I'm sorry—I hope…your address was on the card. I couldn't call—" he rambles, hopelessly timid and practically backing away.

 

"No, stop," Arthur says — wisely not touching the lad — but simply stepping aside to show that he may walk inside. "I'm so glad you're here."

 

When Arthur peers outside, perhaps looking for a car, the young man says: "I took the bus." There's a stop relatively nearby, but it's still a hike. It must have taken him a half an hour just to walk to their home.

 

Eames can't help thinking of a baby deer when the omega takes three awkward, gangly steps into their foyer. The poor boy looks as though he's going to drop dead of fright when he notices Eames in the kitchen. Then he connects the dots in realtime. "You're…" he says, pointing at Eames, "The man from the store."

 

Eames smiles guiltily. "I am. I'm sorry about that. That was my clumsy attempt at befriending you. I didn't mean to frighten you."

 

There are no new bruises (at least from what he can see), but the remnants of the assaults are still there, a now-yellow and green ring framing his right eye. "So you're…?" he asks, looking to Arthur for help.

 

"We're mates," Arthur says, gesturing to their living room. "Please sit."

 

The omega obeys Arthur's request as though it is a direct order, swiftly walking into the living room and sitting down. He then grips his kneecaps and looks at them as if awaiting further instructions. He's thin — too thin — probably from nerves and an increased heart rate. Eames deduces this immediately purely based on experience raising Max, who also has a difficult time putting on and maintaining a healthy weight. The thick mop of hair on his head puts Max and Ravi's manes to shame, but it's wild, and sticks up in every direct as if he hurried very quickly to their home, not even pausing to worry about something comparatively superfluous like his appearance.

 

He's wearing a plain white dress shirt (sleeves rolled to the elbows) and slacks that fit him strangely. Arthur is the sartorial expert, but Eames thinks they look too large in the waist (cinched in place with a belt), but a bit too short on his long legs. The alpha probably doesn't allow his mate to leave the house in order to try on clothes at a mall. Most likely, the omega wears whatever his mate brings home for him.

 

Once again, he's seized by the desire to break something.

 

Eames hangs back in the kitchen, just in case he's emitting any kind of scent, while Arthur slowly approaches the young man and sits beside him on the couch. "What's your name?" he asks quietly, smiling in a subtly pleasant way. A memory suddenly visits him: Arthur soothing Cobb in one of his frenzied, manic moments. Society always harps on alphas' gentling skills, but Arthur is currently putting on a clinic on omegas' abilities to salve.

 

He can see the precise moment the young man decides they're not a threat. His shoulders relax slightly, falling away from his ears and he says, "Benjamin," on an exhale.

 

His ears detect a bit of a drawl. It's subtle. Most people would never pick it up, but Eames has trained himself to notice such details. He tries to place it: not the deep south, but perhaps southern Illinois. Maybe Kentucky.

 

"Benjamin," Arthur repeats as if greatly pleased by the young man's name. "I'm Arthur, and that's Eames," he says, pointing back to the kitchen. "We're so glad you're here."

 

Benjamin smiles slightly, eyes a bit brighter as though he believes for the first time he might actually be safe in their presence.

 

***

 

The universe seems to delight in completely overwhelming them. Though Benjamin is a sweet lad, who barely takes up any room at all, it's still the worst possible time for someone to be staying in Rose's old room-slash-guest room. Max needs constant help, but they're afraid to leave the young man on his own, so one of them always hangs back at the house just in case Benjamin needs anything, or heaven forbid, his mate (they've learned his name is Sean) somehow tracks him down and shows up at their home.

 

When that system becomes unmanageable, they start to bring Benjamin along to Max and Ravi's house. 

 

The first couple days, Benjamin is overwhelmed by all the new people and he sits quietly on the couch, keeping out of the way. A few times, Arthur drags him into the kitchen and gives him a specific task, and he does quite well participating that way, but he needs a lot of structure and guidance. And when his services are no longer needed, he withdraws to the living room away from Ravi, Eames, and Jack — all alphas, who are relatively strangers, and therefore intimidate him.

 

Max is the first person to crack his armour. He sits down heavily beside him on the couch one day and smiles, asking: "Want to feel the baby kick?"

 

Though they're technically supposed to be readying dinner, Arthur and Eames freeze in the kitchen and warily watch the interaction. Trust it to Max to be the first person who doesn't simply walk around Benjamin like he's a statue. Predictably, Benjamin looks a bit spooked, but he eventually nods and tentatively touches the swell of Max's stomach. They're quiet for a few seconds and then Benjamin gasps and smiles. "I feel it," he says, face beaming.

 

Max laughs, shaking his head. "He's an active little bugger. Probably another alpha, knowing my luck," he sighs.

 

"That's so wonderful," Benjamin replies, a hint of sadness in his gaze as he stares at Max's stomach. "I've always wanted kids."

 

Perhaps sensing he's wading into dangerous waters, Max replies lightly: "You will one day, I'm sure," and flips on the television to one of his terrible reality shows with the omegas who tear each other apart for an alpha's attention.

 

Benjamin blinks owlishly at the screen. "Do they always fight?"

 

Max grins happily. "Yup!"

 

***

 

"That kid is practically catatonic," Jack says, in one of his less charitable moments, on a day Benjamin doesn't come over to Max's house.

 

"Don't say that," Arthur swiftly corrects. "He was in an abusive relationship. He's having a hard time adjusting."

 

Jack is not impressed. He pauses from playing with the twins in the middle of the living room to roll his eyes. "Believe me, I do feel sorry for him, but Max is about to pop over here, and now you're in charge of this mute kid. I'm just saying…it's a lot to deal with."

 

Max frowns at him from his spot on the couch. "Don't be mean. I like him, and I don't mind sharing him with you guys," he adds, looking over to Arthur and Eames, who are standing in the kitchen.

 

Arthur sighs, twisting a dish towel in his hands, and Eames senses he's recalculating his original estimates, namely how much time he's going to be able to allocate to Benjamin's recovery. "No, Jack is right. I can't do both at the same time."

 

"Then what are we going to do?" Eames interjects.

 

Arthur tosses the towel over his shoulder and declares: "I have an idea."

 

***

 

"Wait, so now I'm babysitting adults?" Frank asks, playing with a glass piece of bric-a-brac he's plucked from the coffee table, until Arthur takes it away from him and puts it back. The alpha pouts and looks up at him. "Are you punishing me for stealing your panties?"

 

Arthur rolls his eyes. By now, he's accustomed to the man teasing him (albeit in private) about their little run in. "No. You have a talent, oddly enough, for comforting people, and Benjamin needs comfort more than anyone I know." 

 

Looking quite pleased, the alpha reclines back against the couch and extends his arms across its back. "So I'm the best, is what you're saying. Better even than, say, that big ape mate of yours."

 

"No, I'm not saying that," Arthur interjects, smirking. "I need your help, though, so can I count on you?"

 

Frank slaps his thighs and stands up with a flourish. "Sure thing, doll," he crows, throwing in a wink because why not? "You can count on me."

 

***

 

 _Jesus Christ_ , Frank thinks miserably as he watches Benjamin wander around the flat. _This kid is a mess_. 

 

He promised Arthur he would house the omega (on a temporary basis) — just until Max has the baby and Arthur and Eames can resume adult-sitting duty. It's sort of flattering, in a weird way, that Arthur asked him to watch Benjamin, considering almost everyone thinks Frank is a lecherous screwup. But not Arthur…sometimes. The omega has occasionally seen the best in him, which in turn makes Frank want to do a really good job so maybe everyone else will believe it too. 

 

Despite this desire, he's a bit unnerved as he watches Benjamin from a safe distance, behind the counter that separates his smallish living room from the even smaller kitchen area. Benjamin was silent during the car ride over, and now he's looking around the room, taking in Frank's meager possessions (TV, couch, coffee table). He's a bit embarrassed, honestly, and feels he should make some excuses about why his place looks like some kind of depressing motel. He's not home much these days because usually Max needs him to babysit, and when he's not there, he's at Arthur and Eames's place, and he tells himself that's why he hasn't gotten around to fixing up his place just yet.

 

But the truth is Frank's a nomad, always has been, and he doesn't really know how to make a house into a home.

 

"You can have my bed," he says eventually. "I'll take the couch."

 

That seems like the right thing to do — the offer that would make Arthur's eyes gleam in approval.

 

"Oh," Benjamin replies. "Um, that's…thank you."

 

So that's settled then. He'll be sleeping on the couch until further notice. 

 

Frank doesn't know the exact details of what happened between the kid and his mate, but he gets the gist. He sees the bruises. He knows how the world works. 

 

Later that evening, he warms up a couple microwaveable meals for them and they eat in front of the television. He feels guilty that he doesn't have better food available, but he tries to make the mashed potatoes, steak, and peas look appealing on the two plates he owns, and murmurs an apology (for good measure) as he hands it to Benjamin. The kid eats quietly, pausing only to offer: "If you buy some groceries, I can make us meals. I mean…you're letting me stay here. It's the least I can do."

 

It's the most words he's ever heard him say, and Frank doesn't know how to respond at first. It's a nice offer, and he never gets to eat homemade meals unless Eames makes them. But he's never had a prepared meal in his own home.

 

He nods and they don't talk until they're done eating.

 

They watch the news and some game show that Frank can't really focus on because he keeps glancing at the side of Benjamin's face where there's still some light bruising. Arthur specifically told him not to ask nosey questions, but he's too curious to stop himself from blurting: "So he knocked you around a lot, huh?"

 

The kid winces and Frank has the time to think _shit_ before he murmurs: "Yeah."

 

The thing is, he's got too many thoughts on the matter to keep quiet. Frank places his plate on the coffee table and shakes his head in disapproval. "See, that's not right. They oughta euthanise dirtbag alphas who abuse omegas." It's something of a sore point for him — brings up bad memories from his childhood, plus that time Browning beat up Arthur in front of him. Frank hates that shit. It's one thing for a disagreement between alphas to result in blows, but omegas? Only cowards hit omegas.

 

Benjamin frowns, looking away from the TV so he can stare at Frank. "He's not a dirtbag. I'm—" but he stops suddenly mid-sentence, like he ran out of steam. But Frank is patient, so he waits and watches until the kid feels he has to finish his thought: "I frustrated him. I wasn't getting pregnant."

 

Frank stares at him, waiting for him to say something else that will make sense, but apparently the kid is done talking. _Right. Time to nip this in the bud, then_. He reaches for the remote and mutes the TV. "So what? You think you deserve to get beat up then?"

 

"No," Benjamin answers immediately, fingers anxiously twisted in his lap. He obviously knows that's how he's supposed to answer, but Frank doubts he believes the words. "I mean, that was just one example. I also talked back sometimes, forgot to do certain chores…" He stares helplessly at Frank when the alpha quirks his brows, unimpressed by that line of reasoning. "I just mean…I made mistakes. I'm not excusing it, but he had reasons…"

 

"Yeah, reason number one being he's an asshole," Frank smirks. He's not going to let this poor kid sit here and rationalise his mate beating him. "I know his type. He probably told you you're lucky to have him, no one else will have you, etcetera et-fucking-cetera. Am I right?" It's hard to feel cocky when Benjamin looks so wrecked and frail when he nods weakly. Frank lets himself experience a surge of anger so he doesn't feel hopelessly depressed instead. "Well, I'm here to tell you that's a load of bullshit, understand? You should have a really nice mate who treats you like a goddamn prince."

 

Benjamin looks unsure, but he's quiet for a while, processing that information. Finally, he looks at Frank with his wide, dark eyes and whispers: "Thanks."

 

So that's settled.

 

After dinner, they watch some more TV and Frank notices the kid is squinting at the screen. When he asks if Benjamin wears glasses, he quietly confesses he did have glasses, but he forgot them back at his old house, along with all his worldly possessions. Frank makes the executive decision they're going shopping the next day.

 

"But I don't have any money," Benjamin points out, helplessly watching as Frank stands up and walks into the bedroom.

 

He tries to look at the room through Arthur's eyes and decides he should change the sheets because that's probably what the omega would tell him to do. He quickly strips the bed and throws the linens in the corner. Luckily, he has another set in the closet, which he fetches, and pauses only to glance at the kid as he lingers in the doorway. "That's okay. I'll spot ya, Bengie," he answers, whipping the sheet across the bed before tucking the edges in.

 

When he looks up, Benjamin is watching him with curious, dark eyes. "Thanks," he mumbles.

 

***

 

Arthur calls to check in when they're driving to the mall. 

 

"Yeah," Frank says in greeting.

 

"How are things?" Arthur asks, then because he must hear the car's engine, adds: "Where are you?"

 

"Good! Good," Frank crows, shooting the kid, who is seated shotgun, an encouraging smile. "Going to get Bengie some glasses."

 

The kid is dressed in some of Frank's clothes, so they've added wardrobe shopping to their list. He knows it must be overwhelming to rebuild one's life from scratch, so he's trying to break down the mission into manageable segments. Today, glasses and clothes. Tomorrow, they'll go down to city hall to get copies of the kid's records: birth certificate, Social Security card, everything he'll need to build a new life independent of his former mate, who Frank has taken to secretly referring to — in the privacy of his own mind — as _Assface_.

 

Bengie flashes a little smile his way, and it's good to see the poor kid look anything but his usual dejected self.

 

"Don't call him that. His name is Benjamin," Arthur corrects, ever a ray of sunshine.

 

Frank smirks. "Jealous, my beloved?"

 

He can practically taste Arthur's little scowl through the phone. "Are you being professional with him? He's really fragile, Frank."

 

That's all the thanks he gets for being a fucking white knight in this crooked world. He frowns, his free grip tightening on the wheel. What does Arthur think he's been up to anyway? Taking advantage of an abused omega? Like he's the scum of the earth. "Nice to know you think so highly of me," he answers, trying to keep his voice light.

 

There's a pause. "I'm sorry. I'm just worried about him."

 

"Yeah, well, don't be. I got it," he says and quickly hangs up. _Suck on that, brown-eyes_.

 

They drive in silence for about five minutes after that when Bengie suddenly speaks: "Was that your mate?" he asks quietly.

 

Despite his wildest fantasies, the idea of Arthur as his mate is so patently absurd that he bursts out laughing. "Jesus, no. That was Arthur." He replays the conversation in his head—the fond tone, using the word _beloved_. He sees how the kid could have made that mistake. "We just tease each other."

 

For some reason, Bengie looks a little relieved. "Oh," he says, gazing out the window before asking: "And Eames doesn't mind you doing that?"

 

Frank smirks. "Eames? Nah, he knows we're kidding," but then an image fills his vision, the Brit's face looking less than in agreement with that assessment. "But, uh, you shouldn't mention that conversation we just had to him, okay?"

 

***

 

The optometrist is a college boy alpha, and Frank can tell the kid is uncomfortable being around him, so he stays in the room throughout the examination. Bengie occasionally shoots him a relieved look and Frank nods in understanding. It's hard enough breaking the bond, let alone surrounding him with all these new people, many of them alphas. He smirks, watching Bengie and his long, bony limbs climbing from station-to-station, and nearly launching out of the seat in fright during the air puff test, something college boy calls "Non-Contact Tonometry." 

 

At the sound of Frank's laughter, Bengie looks at him and smiles — really smiles, teeth and all.

 

He looks years younger and it's nice to see him happy like that.

 

They leave the mall with a new pair of horn-rimmed glasses and several bags of clothing and underwear for the omega. As they walk across the parking lot, Frank carrying all the bags (because, fuck you, Arthur, he's a very polite alpha), Bengie suddenly asks: "How do you know Arthur and Eames?"

 

And isn't that a long-fucking-story? He knows sharing Arthur and Eames's secrets is out of the question — their stories are not his to tell, but he doesn't want to lie to the kid. For some reason, it feels like would be a low dig, like kicking a poor little puppy, or something. So he creatively edits instead. "I got into some trouble and they helped me out."

 

"What kind of trouble?" Bengie asks.

 

Frank frowns at him. "Since when are you so talkative?"

 

And damnit, the kid shrinks a bit at that response, which won't do at all. Frank sighs and answers: "Gambling debt, okay? Arthur helped me out."

 

"Oh…" Bengie whispers, and Frank thinks that's the end of it, but after they load the bags into the car and climb inside, he asks: "Why did you gamble if you're bad at it?"

 

Frank has to bite his tongue and remind himself he's not talking to Arthur or Eames, or even Max. This is Bengie—a broken, gentle baby bird, who doesn't ask personal questions out of personal malice or spite. He's curious because Frank is his friend, sort of, and he's probably never had a friend before in his whole life. 

 

"I'm addicted to it," he confesses, smirking and shrugging a bit. "It's pretty bad. I can't even go near casinos anymore."

 

Bengie frowns, silently processing the information, but Frank doesn't think he should turn the keys in the ignition because it doesn't feel like their conversation is done yet.

 

"When did you first start?"

 

Frank sucks his teeth and rests the back of his head against the seat. "My dad killed my mom when I was little — beat her to death — and I was on my own after that, so I met some guys…bad guys, but they took care of me," Frank pauses to rethink his wording, "I _thought_ they were taking care of me, but they were bad dudes." He can tell the part about his mom strikes a nerve with the kid, whose shoulders visibly slump. "My mom…she thought she deserved it too," he says, staring pointedly at Bengie when he adds the last bit: "She didn't."

 

***

 

They buy groceries on the way home, at a different store than where Arthur and Eames first met Bengie, and when they're back at Frank's place, the kid sets about organizing the kitchen and cooking them a nice dinner. It's totally weird for Frank to have someone in his home, being all domestic, and he's not quite sure what to do, so he sits in front of the television and half-watches some game show. Occasionally, he glances over at the kitchen and sees Bengie, head bowed, busy with some menial task like chopping an onion, and the kid may or may not look up, catch his eye, and smile.

 

And yeah….the whole thing is weird. Frank watches television, sipping his beer, and frowning at the screen.

 

Bengie wants them to eat dinner at the small kitchen table, so Frank agrees, and at first he has reservations because he's afraid the kid will ask him more personal questions, but then the food is so good he forgets to be wary. Bengie prepared beautiful baked potatoes and perfectly cooked greens and pork chops, and Frank can't stop humming and groaning in approval as he shovels the food in his mouth.

 

He hasn't had a home-cooked meal in ages.

 

Unsurprisingly, Bengie eats much slower — picking more than enthusiastically devouring like Frank, but he looks over the moon that the alpha approves of his cooking. 

 

"Goddamn, Bengie," he groans when he's cleared his plate, right before Bengie, the little angel, pushes some of his food onto Frank's plate. "That mate of yours…" Frank silently specifies _Assface_ , "That poor bastard doesn't know what he lost. You're a great little chef."

 

The kid practically glows in response. "Thanks," but Frank sees the moment a flash of sadness obscures his gaze, and Bengie is quiet after that, so he knows something is wrong. 

 

"What is it?" Frank asks, pausing to take another swig from his beer bottle.

 

Bengie shakes his head, but stops short of lying. He adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose and sighs. "I miss him…a lot," and Frank must sneer or roll his eyes, or something, because he's quick to add: "I know he abused me, and I don't want to go back, but I miss him. Does that make sense?"

 

He tries not to be a flippant asshole and actually processes that question. Frank's not an omega, but he likes to think he understands the omega mindset. Most omegas need alphas to provide structure for them. Bengie had that structure, albeit deeply unpleasant, for years, and now suddenly he doesn't anymore. He must be terrified and overwhelmed all the time.

 

"Yeah," he replies, and the kid is visibly relieved. "But you can take your time, Bengie. This ain't a hotel. I'm not gonna kick you out, you know?" And just in case that wasn't clear enough, he raises his bottle and says, "I'm in this for the long haul."

 

Because, despite what Arthur thinks, he's not an asshole. Breaking a bond is a long, difficult process, but Frank likes Bengie, and he has no intention of sending the sweet kid back into the arms of Assface.

 

Bengie smiles, which is how Frank knows everything is going to be okay.

 

***

 

Arthur is pissed because of course he is.

 

Max is due to have his millionth, or whatever, baby in a couple weeks, and this Bengie situation really couldn't be happening at a worse time, but that's not the kid's fault (or Frank's fault, thank you very much), and yet he feels like he's in trouble standing in the Eames's living room as he gives them the rundown about how things are going.

 

"He has clothes? Did you buy him toiletries?" Arthur drills, like Frank is a wolf they've only recently housebroken.

 

He rolls his eyes. " _Jesus Christ_. Of course, Arthur. Fuck."

 

Eames eyes him suspiciously from his place on the couch, arms reclined along the back. It's a deceptive posture — aggressive in its passiveness. The Brit could probably still kill Frank with his pinky toe. "And you're sleeping on the couch, are you?"

 

Frank's face burns in outrage. "You two think I'm some kind of perverted molester, don't you?"

 

"No," Eames corrects. "I mean, yes, you're a pervert, but I trust you with my son and grand babies, don't I?"

 

And yeah, okay, that's true enough. Frank rolls back his shoulders and frowns. "So why are you giving me the business with Bengie? He likes it at my place. Everything is going great."

 

For some reason, both of them — the fucking _Eameses_ — eye him curiously. It's a little unnerving because, while Frank was a very good petty crook, he was no where near in the same class of criminals as Arthur and Eames. For instance, he's fairly sure Arthur already knows the entire length and breadth of every sordid detail of Frank's meager, pathetic existence. 

 

One time, Frank really pissed him off by doing something relatively innocuous (changed his laptop desktop image to a photo of an alpha and omega in the throes of passion from one of Frank's favorite _films pour adulte_ ) and Arthur turned to him and asked, "How _is_ Mrs. Klein?" the name of Frank's third grade (and all-time favourite) teacher.

 

He has no idea how Arthur knows his third grade teacher, but he _really_ has no idea how Arthur could have possibly discerned Mrs. Klein is his favourite.

 

Arthur is terrifying. 

 

" _What_?!" Frank cries, feeling like the last sane man on earth.

 

Arthur frowns. "Max is going to have the baby soon, and you'll have to help with him, the twins, and watch Benjamin. I need to know that's not too much for you to handle."

 

"Bengie's good with the babies. He can help. You've seen him. Besides, Max will need more help," Frank answers.

 

Eames seems satisfied with that line of reasoning because he hums as he stands up. "Sounds good to me, mate. Just as long as Max and the sprogs are still our priority, yeah?"

 

"Yeah, of course," Frank answers, insulted either of them could have possibly thought differently. Max and the babies are always his goddamn priority. He's just taught Aady how to lift a wallet out of his pocket. Like he's going to jump ship now.

 

The Brit claps a friendly hand on his back as he escorts him back towards the door. "Don't take it personally, mate. Arthur's a bit paranoid about the baby, that's all," the alpha says.

 

They're standing by the front door and Frank is trying to think of a really smart ass comment to throw at Arthur when he happens to glance out the window and spots a black car he's never seen before parked down the block. Frank knows all the cars in the neighbourhood — a compulsive checklist he ritualistically performs, residual from his days on the run. 

 

"We got company," he announces, and Arthur is at his side in a flash.

 

" _Shit_ ," the omega hisses, squinting a bit. "It's him."

 

The _him_ is implied. Mr. Assface. "How'd he find us?" Frank asks.

 

Eerily, neither Arthur or Eames look particularly surprised by these turn of events. Eames sighs, leaning agains the door as he observes the vehicle. "His name is Sean Hines. He's Special Ops. JSOC, specifically. Benjamin knows he's in the military, but he doesn't know the full story."

 

 _Shit_. "Oh, so he's tracking our cars and plans to murder us all," Frank casually observes.

 

"That's probably the plan," Arthur frowns, like one of the neighbour's dogs is taking a dump on their front lawn. "I'll take the car out. When he follows me, you can leave, Frank."

 

"Absolutely not," Eames interjects, following Arthur from the window to the kitchen where the omega fetches his keys. "I'll go."

 

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Stop it. I can handle one ranger." It's clearly a conversation they've had a thousand times before: Arthur wants to do something insane, Eames (understandably) balks because he's the alpha and the alpha always protects his mate, and then Arthur shuts down the whole ridiculously archaic ritual because he's Arthur. He points aggressively at Frank. "You go straight home and tend to Benjamin, and watch your six. This guy is in full hunting mode."

 

 _Great_.

 

Eames follows Arthur as far as the garage, grabs his arm, spins him, and they engage in a murmured, intense conversation. Frank can't hear what they're saying because they're too far away, but he sees the moment Eames kisses his brow, and Arthur leaves.

 

See, that's what mates are supposed to do — worry about each other, but this guy, Mr. Assface AKA Sean Hines. He ain't _worried_. He's just looking for his missing property, and when he finds Bengie, he plans to kill him. Of that much, Frank is certain because he knows alphas and he knows this guy.

 

Frank will be ready for him.

 

***

 

Arthur's plan works, and when Frank glances in the rearview mirror during the drive home, the coast is clear. No black car is tailing him. He smirks, drumming on the steering wheel along to the song playing on the radio. He has to hand it to Arthur. His plans always work, but that doesn't mean they're out of trouble just yet. Frank doesn't know as much about military men as, say, Arthur and Eames, but he's familiar enough with these Special Ops guys to know they don't just let go of stuff. This crazy guy is going to peruse them until he's achieved his objective.

 

When he walks through the front door, Bengie is hurrying around the kitchen in oven mitts, and carrying a freshly-baked something, or other, he clearly just plucked from the oven. 

 

"What're you up to?" Frank grins, leaning against the doorway.

 

The kitchen table is small, but Bengie has it set up nice, complete with plates, cutlery, and napkins (the cloth kind). Frank didn't even know he had cloth napkins, but there they are. 

 

"Hey!" he greets sunnily, smiling. "I made pot roast," He holds up the dish and Frank chuckles.

 

"I see that. You don't have to cook every night," Frank says, walking into the kitchen and flopping down by the table. He doesn't fully mean it, though. Frank looks forward to the kid's cooking more than almost anything else these days. He's gotten so used to taking care of other people (the kids and Max) that it's nice to have someone else fuss over him.

 

"I don't mind," Bengie answers, as he always answers — the same dismissal every single time ( _I don't mind, it's my pleasure, it's the least I can do_ ).

 

They eat in relative silence, but it's comfortable and familiar now. But after a while, Frank can tell Bengie wants to say something because the kid keeps looking at him, and so he sets down his knife and fork and looks at him, waiting. 

 

Bengie smiles shyly. "I slept really well last night. I think maybe the bond is breaking." 

 

Frank sees the black car idling in front of the Eames's and thinks: _Maybe for you_. But he smiles pleasantly and replies: "That's terrific, kiddo. I told you, didn't I?"

 

He looks young and genuinely happy when he nods, his face pale and bruise-free for the first time since Frank's known him. Frank can't imagine the anger that must possess a man in order to hurt someone like Bengie. The kid probably cries watching those Hallmark commercials, or sappy romantic comedies they show on TV during the weekends. He imagines, anyway. He doesn't _know_ because he hasn't known Bengie long enough, and now Assface wants to take him away.

 

The thought makes him furious, but he keeps his emotions in check. Bengie is happy about the meal, and his night of restful sleep, so Frank doesn't want to spoil that for him.

 

***

 

Frank lays awake at night, staring at the ceiling. Anytime a car pulls into the parking lot, he watches the beams from the headlights cast shadows across the walls, and he waits. He waits for the sounds of footfalls outside the door — for the entire structure to cave in and splinter when the other alpha breaks in. He imagines all the different scenarios that will play out after that: how he'll attack, what the other alpha might do to him. 

 

But in every version of events, the outcome is always the same: He protects Bengie. 

 

Bengie never gets hurt again.

 

The kid walks into the living room around three in the morning and sits on the edge of the couch. He must have already known Frank was awake somehow because Bengie doesn't seem surprised when he looks down and Frank is watching him. 

 

"I can't sleep," he confesses, flashing a weak smile. "No nightmares. I'm just not tired."

 

Frank hums sympathetically. He supposes it's boring for the kid, to sit around his apartment all day. Not having anything to do tends to mess with a person's sleep schedule. "Wanna see something?" he asks.

 

Bengie smiles timidly and nods.

 

A minute later, they're seated on the bed and Frank pulls off the cover of the old shoebox. "You can't tell anybody, okay?" he asks, glancing at Bengie, who looks very serious as he nods in agreement. "Haven't shown this to anyone," he adds, handing over the old photo of him, age three, seated on the stoop of their old shitty house with the screen front door.

 

"Oh my God!" Bengie laughs, covering his mouth like he's afraid of being too loud. "Oh you were so cute," he giggles, and Frank really can't fault him for saying that. He was a cute kid, particularly dressed in his little overalls and striped shirt, hair sticking out in every direction as he frowns at the camera.

 

"Yeah, what happened, right?" Frank pivots with his trusty self-deprecating humour. 

 

Bengie smiles, gazing at the photo a moment longer. "I don't remember my parents. They sold me pretty early on, when I was eight, to a man. He wasn't nice to me," he says, slowly handing the photo back to Frank. "And he sold me to Sean, my mate—former mate." He sighs, gazing around the room. "It still sounds so weird to call him that."

 

He puts the photo back in the box, beside other little momentos, and closes the box. "It'll get easier. You'd be surprised what you can get used to."

 

The omega nods slowly. "Can you stay until I'm asleep?" he asks, and it sounds like an innocent request because it comes from Bengie's mouth, but he knows Arthur would probably disapprove of the arrangement — an unattached alpha sitting in bed with a recently-separated omega. But Bengie is a good kid, and Frank wants to help, so he agrees.

 

He sits on the edge of the bed, regaling Bengie with his dumb stories that the kid eats up with a spoon until he's sure the omega is asleep. Then he slips out of the room and lays on the couch again.

 

Frank waits.

 

The thing about these Special Forces boys is that they're all so damn diligent. They're supposedly cunning and ingenious too, but really they're mind-numbingly predictable in their commitment to duty. Sean Hines eventually comes for Bengie because that's his mission, and he plans to carry out his mission like a good Special Forces boy.

 

But he hasn't counted on Frank.

 

The car pulls into the lot, and idles for a long time, which is how Frank knows this time is different. He pulls out the gun (silencer attached) from beneath the cushions and walks towards the front door. There's a moment where he pauses in the hallway and gazes at the shut bedroom door. Frank has an active imagination. It gets him into trouble a lot when he fantasises about various scenes — possible alternate timelines to his sad, miserable existence. Usually, these fantasies include lovely naked omegas, doing various acts of debauchery on his person.

 

But this times he imagines a world in which he comes home to Bengie — sweet, loving Bengie — every single night.

 

It's a stupid dream, though. Those kinds of endings aren't reserved for men like him. Here's how Frank's life goes: he checks to make sure the gun is loaded and exits the apartment as silently as possible. Gun tucked into the back of his pants, he descends the exterior stairs down to the lot, and is utterly unsurprised when he sees the black car parked diagonally across three spots, Sean Hines leaned against the idling car, waiting.

 

"Where is he?" he barks, cutting right to the chase, as only a man taught to kill can.

 

Frank stumbles a little, staggering in zigzags across the lot. "Are you a taxi?" he cries, affecting the slur of a drunk man.

 

The act is enough to confuse the soldier for a few seconds, which is all the time he needs. Frank can only see the outline of his figure, headlights washing out all the other incidental details. "Benjamin Hansen. He's staying here—"

 

"I lost my keys," Frank continues, now just a few feet away.

 

Hines slips off the car and stalks towards him, hand reaching behind his waist.

 

But Frank is ready, and he's faster. He rips out the gun from the back of his waistband and fires two shots — one in the chest, another in the throat. He rushes forward, grabbing the alpha by the front of his shirt and pushing until he pins him to the car and gets the back door open. Then he pushes Hines inside and watches the man bleed for a while. Occasionally, the alpha gasps for air, but other than that, he dies swiftly and silently.

 

Frank imagines that's probably the only good deed he's accomplished in his life.

 

He turns off the engine and opens the trunk where he finds a tarp (Frank knows exactly what the bastard intended to do with _that_ ), and uses it to cover the body in the back seat. Then he closes the door and rings Arthur.

 

"Hello?" the omega greets, sounding oddly alert given the hour.

 

"It's done," Frank announces, peering across the lot, checking for witnesses. The lot is vacant, the windows of the apartments all black.

 

There's nothing but silence on the other end, but Arthur eventually speaks. "Need help with the edits?"

 

Frank smirks and looks down at himself — at the blood stains and then the mess in the back seat. "Yes, Arthur. A bit."

 

***

 

Eames shows up, alone, thirty minutes later. He explains that Max has gone into labor, and they're staring at each other in the middle of a dark lot, the Brit holding a shovel, when Frank smirks and says: "Congratulations."

 

Eames grins and shoves a heap of plastic tarp into Frank's arms. "Shut it, and help me deal with this so I can be there for my grandson's birth."

 

They drive in separate cars an hour to an industrial patch of land, no doubt made toxic by the factories lining the horizon. Eames drives Hines's vehicle with the body and Frank rides behind him in his own car. They dig — first Frank, and then Eames when he gets tired. When he's digging, Eames smokes a cigarette as he always does whenever he's around Frank because they bring out the lad in each other, but also because he knows Frank won't snitch on him to Arthur. Alphas' code, and all that. 

 

"It's bloody unfair, isn't it? You try to be a good man, but you keep winding up here," he smirks, taking another drag, leaned against Hines's car.

 

There's a stagnant lake nearby that Frank figures they can sink the car into. No one will ever find it.

 

"He had it coming," Frank answers, pausing, mopping at the sweat on his brow with a shirt sleeve. 

 

"Most people call the police," Eames points out.

 

"Yeah, well…We're not most people," Frank grumbles, shovelling with renewed vigour. 

 

He wants this asshole gone in the ground, six feet under, forever ever and ever.

 

Frank wants to go home to Bengie.

 

They finish everything (burying the body, sinking the car, burning Frank's clothes) in three hours. All in all, Frank is fairly satisfied with this accomplishment. He's wearing new jeans and a t-shirt as Eames drives him back home, the sun just beginning to peek over the horizon. 

 

"Benjamin is a good boy. He'll make a fine mate one day," Eames notes as he pulls into the lot.

 

Frank nods, sort of unsure what he's supposed to say because, well, what the hell is the right thing to say to someone with whom you just buried a body? He opens the door once they're parked and salutes Eames. "Pleasure working with you, captain."

 

He likes Eames because the other alpha always seems to get his jokes, and this morning is no exception. The Brit smirks, but isn't prepared to let him off the hook just yet. "A nice omega might be good for you, you know."

 

 _Jesus_. Frank groans as he climbs out of the car, poking his head back inside to see Eames and his big, dopey grin. "You're not funny."

 

"Yes I am," Eames says right before Frank slams the door.

 

***

 

Bengie doesn't need to know the truth. Ever. He's endured enough ugliness in his young life. As far as he knows, Sean Hines is living somewhere else, happy and content, which in turn gives Bengie permission to feel the same.

 

Hines had a mission and he failed because he didn't consider an important variable — Frank.

 

But now Frank has a mission, nameless but vivid, balanced on the tip of his tongue, but never articulated, if only to keep that smug _I told you so_ look from Eames's stupid face.

 

He wakes up the next morning and Bengie has made French toast and brewed a fresh pot of coffee.

 

Everything is perfect.

 


	54. Taj cometh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taj arrives and Ravi has a surprise

Max can't wait for the baby to arrive. Contrary to what Jack keeps saying (he must enjoy having an army at his disposal, and he's _so lucky_ to be waited on hand and foot) Max just wants to have the baby so things can go back to normal. Yes, he knows he's lucky and he loves his family so much for helping him, but he doesn't enjoy sitting around day-after-day, watching helplessly from his command post on the couch, as his family moves around like a well-organized hive.

 

He's rarely alone with Ravi these days, and even when they do manage to steal a few moments together, Max is too tired to do anything but lay beside him in bed as the alpha strokes his hair, which is nice and lovely, but Max misses the days when they tore off their clothes and raced to the bedroom.

 

During one of these serene moments of privacy, Ravi kisses the top of his head and says, "Tomorrow I want to show you something," and Max doesn't say anything, but instead hums affirmatively. It's settled: tomorrow they'll leave the house. That prospect alone makes Max happy. Everyone is too paranoid these days to let him leave on his own, and Arthur and Eames have been occupied these days with looking after Benjamin, so they can't walk with him around the block like they used to (just for Max to get come kind of exercise).

 

Tomorrow is a Wednesday, and Ravi most certainly works Wednesdays, so the alpha must have requested the day off from Uncle Dom. Any other time, Max would object and tell Ravi he hates being the reason the man misses work, but he's at his wit's end here. He's wiling for Ravi to take the day off if it means going outside, walking together, and feeling the sun's rays on his face.

 

***

 

He walks slower these days, but his mate is patient as he holds his hand and they stroll together around the immediate neighbourhood. Occasionally, they pass the neighbors, who coo when they see Max and his huge stomach, and they ask all the usual questions he's used to fielding: when he's due, the sex of the baby, if he thinks it's going to be another alpha. It seems Max's status as an uber-omega has become quite the focal point of neighbourhood discussion.

 

But mostly, they walk in content silence, Max casting a happy smile up to Ravi, who chuckles fondly and kisses his temple, an arm draped around his shoulders. They walk until they're standing in front of what he and his siblings dubbed _The White House_ in their youth. Max loves this house, and it was a landmark he always pointed out when they would ride their bikes through the neighbourhood — a two-story colonial with a wraparound porch, and a lovely, sweet little garden in the front yard. Though they never knew anyone who lived in the house, thanks to a healthy dose of curiosity and a willingness to be nosey little kids, Max knows for a fact there's also a big in-ground pool in the backyard.

 

He spots a _For Sale_ sign embedded in the front lawn. "Oh wow. The White House is for sale," Max gasps, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket. He wants to take a picture of the sign for his siblings. "Jack and Rose are going to freak out. This is our favorite house."

 

Ravi hums. "Yeah, I know."

 

Max pauses and looks up at him curiously. "What do you mean?"

 

The alpha flashes a smile, though the expression lacks its usual lustre, and it occurs to Max that his mate is nervous for some reason. Ravi gestures to the sign and stammers, "I, uh…I made an offer. Jack mentioned you love this house, and we're going to need lots more room with the new baby— _babies_ , when we have more kids, and…You deserve it, priya. I want you to be happy." Max's eyes widen as he looks back to The White House. Never in his wildest dreams did he ever imagine living inside this house. In fact, his little kid fantasies were limited to maybe one day meeting a kid, who did live in this house, and would perhaps invite them over to play. However, Ravi interprets his silence as hesitancy and rushes to clarify: "The inside is wonderful—all new amenities and high ceilings. We can schedule a walk-through. If you don't like it, I can withdraw the offer."

 

"Ravi…" Max finally sighs, pocketing his phone and grabbing the collar of the alpha's shirt. Lately, he can't lean up to kiss his mate due to his swollen stomach, so he has to pull Ravi downward and simply hope the alpha will be able to navigate his way to meet him. He does, managing to pivot slightly and press his mouth to Max's, chest rumbling in laughter. "I can't believe you did this," Max whispers after they've separated, voice wavering and hot tears welling in his eyes. 

 

"Don't get excited yet. It's just an offer," Ravi reminds him, cupping the omega's face.

 

"I know, but I love you for trying," Max whispers, pulling the front of his shirt again until Ravi smiles and kisses him.

 

***

 

For the time being, he doesn't share the news with anyone in the family. He figures it would be cruel to get their (and his own) hopes up by talking as if the deal is done. Surely, there are other families making similar offers, and the price might spike to a tier completely out of their financial range.

 

So Max waits, though Ravi takes him back to The White House one more time so he can look around the interior. As promised, the inside is just as beautiful as the outside, but Max particularly falls in love with the kitchen, which is huge and equipped with all modern appliances. He can already imagine the kids eating at the table while he prepares breakfast. In the backyard, the in-ground pool is exactly as he remembered it, but this time he sees it through parental eyes.

 

"We'll need to put up a gate around this," he comments, imagining the babies running around.

 

"I already have the name of a good baby-proofing company," Ravi answers immediately. When Max looks at him and smirks, he adds sheepishly: "No harm in planning, right?"

 

They twine fingers and hold hands, gazing together across the blue water of the pool. "I really want this house," Max confesses quietly.

 

"Me too," Ravi replies.

 

He has to take the steps slowly, one at a time, Ravi holding his hand and guiding him gently with a hand pressed to his lower back. They check out the bedrooms — three of them, plus the large master bedroom with an enormous four-post canopy bed. As soon as Max sees it, he bursts out laughing. "Oh my God. Well, I see why you wanted to make an offer. Does this thing come with the house?" he asks, grinning as he grips one of the posts.

 

Ravi grins from the doorway. "You know me so well. I asked, and yes, we get the bed."

 

Max practically giggles as he tests the buoyancy of the mattress before walking to the large windows so he can observe the view. He's never lived in a two-story house before, and he instinctively knows his dads and siblings are going to freak out when — if — they get the house. It fills him with pride to know everyone will be so impressed and happy for them… _if_ they get the house.

 

***

 

He hates keeping secrets, and Max has always been a terrible liar, but fortunately everyone mistakes his distraction due to constantly thinking about the pending offer for worry over Taj's impending birth. And yes, of course he's worried about the baby, but he also can't stop imagining their new life together as a family in the gorgeous, perfect house. Max has never before been able to imagine something so vividly as he can picture his children and Ravi moving through that home.

 

The week the sellers consider all the offers drags on for what feels like forever. Then, one day Ravi bursts through the front door, an hour before he usually gets home from work, hair wild and face glowing, and Max instinctively knows.

 

They got it.

 

It's one of the rare moments he's actually alone with the twins, who watch with wide, confused eyes as their parents temporarily _lose their minds_ in the centre of the living room — Max shouting as he tries (and fails) to jump up and down, and Ravi laughs maniacally as he grabs the omega and presses kisses all over his face. Taj even seems to sense something exciting is happening because he suddenly kicks Max so hard the omega immediately has to sit down on the couch.

 

Ravi collapses beside him, laughing when Aady rushes over and tries to scale his legs. "Come here, bean," he chuckles, pulling her up so she's seated between them. Charles continues to monitor them from afar, probably still trying to determine the cause of his parents' sudden onslaught of madness. 

 

The twins are too young to explain the concept of a new home to them, but he knows one way to win them over on the idea. "Aady, do you want to swim?"

 

The little girl's eyes grow huge in her head. Recently, Max has been able to take the twins swimming, and though they can't do much besides frantically doggy paddle into Max's arms over and over, the babies love being in the water. "Swim!" she cries, kicking her feet to indicate, yes, she would slaughter her enemies to be anywhere near the water.

 

Charles cries the same word a second later, and Max grins up at his mate. "Well, at least we know they'll like the pool."

 

"They'll love everything," Ravi says, reaching down to smooth back Aady's wild mane that Max _had_ brushed and braided, but she's since yanked the hairs free playing rough and tumble with her brother.

 

Max grins and nods, knowing in his heart that Ravi is right.

 

***

 

The idea was to tell his parents about the house that evening, but Taj has different plans that Max discovers when his water suddenly breaks.

 

Arthur is the one who drives them to the hospital because Eames is busy doing something — details unclear, but Arthur swears he'll be there in time for the birth. And his other father does make it, right in the nick of time, as the nurses are preparing to wheel Max into the delivery room. Eames comes crashing into the room, flushed and hair in disarray. 

 

"Ducky! Brilliant, I thought I missed you. Good luck, love. You'll do so well," his father rambles, leaning over to kiss his forehead even as the nurses try to push him away because Eames looks filthy for some reason, face smudged with dirt, when this is supposed to be a sterile environment.

 

Max is too happy to see him to care, though. He smiles brightly, half-delirious from the drugs. "Hey, dad. I'm so glad you're here," he slurs.

 

He makes a checklist: Ravi is holding his hand and he can see Arthur in his peripheral. Arthur always accompanies him during deliveries because Max wants one of his dads there, and Eames can't handle the idea of Max bleeding, even if it's a necessary part of the surgery.

 

"Everything okay?" he hears Arthur ask, sounding so far away as his eyes slowly shut.

 

"Yeah, everything is fine," Eames answers, voice fainter as he adds: "You'll be brilliant, ducky."

 

***

 

Jack and Rose are there when he wakes up, and Max doesn't comprehend what's going on until his brother grins and says, "I saw him. The nurses took him to that room with all the other babies, but he stands out, you know? Handsome little guy."

 

"Taj?" Max rasps, brow furrowed as he looks around. He doesn't even remember seeing the baby post-surgery.

 

"Yeah, he's so beautiful, Max," Rose says, bringing him a cup of water.

 

He downs it in three gulps and sets down the glass as Ravi walks into the room. "Sorry, priya. I had to go see him," his mate says, sitting on the edge of the bed and kissing Max's temple.

 

He still feels numb and groggy, but also sulky because everyone has now seen the baby except him. "When can I see him?" he pouts.

 

"Soon, love. The nurses will bring him by," Ravi soothes, stroking his hair in a lovely, comforting way.

 

He's too woozy to hold a conversation, so his siblings and mate talk among themselves until his parents wander into the room and Max realizes Eames is cradling a little bundle. The alpha grins as he says, "There's your daddies," to the baby in his arms.

 

Max smiles brightly, throat tightening when he realizes Eames is holding Taj. "Can I see him?" he asks, a silly question because that's clearly why his father is walking towards him.

 

"Of course," Arthur chuckles. "Your dad nearly fought the nurses to liberate him."

 

"Too right," Eames grins, carefully transferring the squirming baby into Max's arms. "I've the right to hold my grandson."

 

Max doesn't hear the rest of whatever Eames is saying because he's gazing down at Taj's little face, and Jack is right, he is beautiful. He looks very much like Ravi with his colouring and the shape of his nose and mouth, and Max cries immediately upon seeing him. "I'm sorry," he mumbles as Ravi wipes gently at his face with a tissue so he doesn't get Taj all wet. "I just love him so much," he mumbles, unsure why everyone laughs because he means it.

 

He loves Taj right away.

 

***

 

Moving into another house with a brand new baby isn't his ideal situation, but Ravi orchestrates everything, which helps to reduce his stress. Max is more mobile now, so he can help pack a little, but he needs to take lots of breaks to rest and to breastfeed Taj. Luckily, his siblings, parents, Frank, and even Benjamin also stop by to take turns packing up boxes and stacking them in high columns all around the house.

 

The twins know something big is going on, and race around the house, screeching and causing general havoc with all their nervous energy. Aady gets more than one timeout when she tries to scale a high columns of boxes.

 

Sometimes, he thinks his family is more excited than he is that he's moving into The White House — Jack keeps calling it that, occasionally pausing to shake his head as he comments, "I can't believe it, _The White House_!" But Max understands his excitement because he feels it too, despite being so exhausted and overwhelmed, he's thrilled at the idea of a fresh start with the babies and his mate, and he'll still be within walking distance of his parents.

 

The twins lose their minds the first time they see the new house. Aady immediately charges around from room-to-room, "securing the perimeter," according to Eames, who always jokes his granddaughter is a general in training. Charles is close at his sister's heels, exploring every nook and crevice, and making Max extremely nervous. They haven't had time to baby proof the house yet, so he watches them closely as he cradles Taj, who spends most of his days alternating between sleeping and demanding milk from Max.

 

The nuclear meltdown happens when they race into the kitchen and see the pool through the sliding glass door. "Dada! Pool!" Aady screeches, half-mad with excitement as she jumps up and down and presses her palms against the glass.

 

Arthur, who has been testing all the faucets in the house (practical, as always), leans against the kitchen counter and grins wolfishly. "You guys were the same way with our pool," he comments, eyes gleaming fondly with nostalgia.

 

Max smirks as he peers out the door and holds Taj with one arm so he can reach down and comfortingly stroke Aady's wild mane with his other hand. "Soon, baby. We need to get the gate up first."

 

"Pool! Pool! Pool!" Aady chants, like she's on strike or something, and when Max looks up Arthur is staring at him sympathetically.

 

"What can you do? The woman wants her pool," Arthur says, grinning with all the wisdom of an experienced parent.

 

***

 

The alphas do most of the heavy lifting while the omegas herd the babies into the living room and keep them occupied. Rose alternates between the two jobs, deftly disappearing when one of the kids throws a fit to carry boxes and move pieces of furniture, until the objects get too heavy, whereupon she returns to care for the kids. It's really some masterful execution, and Max doesn't think anyone else has spotted what she's doing because everyone is too busy gaping at the sudden transformation in Frank.

 

Benjamin has tried a couple times to pick up boxes, and every time Frank rushes in to take them from him, and gently suggests the omega go sit with the others and play with the babies. It's totally weirding everyone out because Frank is being…well… _nice_ , in a totally uncreepy way. Max arches a brow and looks at Arthur, who rolls his eyes and waves his hand through the air: _Long story. I'll tell you later._

 

When the boxes are in their respective rooms, everyone gathers in the large sitting area to relax, play with the twins, take turns holding Taj and pay him all kinds of compliments. Arthur keeps stating how handsome he is, while Eames insists he can already tell the boy will be strong. Rose thinks he has an _intelligent_ face, whatever that means, while Jack insists he looks just like Ravi, a compliment that pleases Max the most because, if his son is even a fraction of the alpha his mate is, they'll be very, very lucky.

 

Benjamin sits close to Frank on the couch, and Max decides it's kind of sweet. He recognises that dependent quality because it's how he is with Ravi — how he always needs to be touching and looking at his mate, or he's filled with anxiety. It's nice to see someone look at Frank like that, but he notices the alpha seems somewhat oblivious to the looks Benjamin is casting his way.

 

 _Very interesting_.

 

_***_

 

He loves his family, but Max is very happy when they finally leave for the day. They show the twins the room they'll be sleeping in until Aady is too old to be sharing a room with her brother any longer, and then they'll move her into one of the other rooms. Aady seems to be very happy with the selection because she immediately climbs onto the bed and jumps up and down, so of course then Charles does the same, and Ravi has to be the one to calm them down.

 

Meanwhile, Max sits in the nursery, Taj nursing at his breast until the baby is too full and sleepy to continue. He tucks the baby into his crib and turns on the baby monitor before slipping out to check on the twins. 

 

Thankfully, by the time he walks into the room, the twins have tuckered themselves out, and Ravi has them corralled into a single bed, an arm draped around each child, their heads pressed to his chest as they slumber peacefully. The alpha flashes a tired, apologetic smile because he won't be able to move without waking the children. This is usually why Max discovers his mate and children asleep in all kinds of interesting, creative positions: facedown on the couch with Aady draped across his back, sprawled out across the living room floor with the twins and toy blocks stacked across his body, and one time slumped across the kitchen table as Charles coloured the side of his face with a permanent marker.

 

Max walks over and carefully leans over to kiss his mate. He then steps over to the free bed and curls up on it. Ravi looks over at him and frowns, whispering: "Go sleep in the master bed, priya."

 

It makes sense. No need for the both of them to wake up with cricks in their necks. But Max doesn't want to be separated from his family their first night in the new house. He would sleep anywhere if it meant he could be with them, but fortunately he gets the wonderful family inside this perfect house. 

 

"I want to stay here," he whispers.

 

His chest expands with a warm, comforting feeling as he lays in bed and watches Ravi nod off to sleep, Aady's little fist curling into the front of his shirt, using it as an anchor as Charles nuzzles his father's flank.

 

Max reaches over to the side table and he switches on the other baby monitor and listens to the sounds of baby Taj breathing deep and steady until he too falls asleep.


	55. The boys go clubbing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arthur, Eames, Pat, and Eddie decide they need a night out.
> 
> Featuring: Abby and chocolate sauce

It all starts when Abby gets into the chocolate sauce. Pat only has half a jar of the stuff, but he has some extra time, so he decides to bake a batch of cookies with a dark chocolate ganache filling. Except, he sets down the jar on the kitchen table, turns away for couple minutes — tops — and when he turns back around, the jar is gone. Brow furrowed, he stands there dumbfounded for a few moments, attempting to imagine a scenario where the jar could have logically moved from the spot he placed it.

Suddenly, the answer occurs to him and he sprints from the kitchen. “Abby!” he cries, but it’s too late. She’s standing in the living room, just a few paces from the kitchen area, head tilted backwards, shaking the empty jar over her face, chocolate sauce smeared across cheeks, not to mention hair, the pretty pink dress, and the entire armrest of the couch. The child has wrought an impressive amount of damage in only a few seconds, so Pat isn’t even angry. He simply stands there, staring at his newly mobile daughter. Abby hasn’t even been walking that long, and yet she’s executed a fairly complicated heist. He might have clapped if it wouldn’t send a bad message. “Oh gosh, baby, no, no, no,” he finally says, rushing forward to take the jar.

It’s completely empty, and Abby doesn’t look the slightest bit ashamed as she stares up at him from beneath her chocolate mask. Pat stares helplessly at the mess — no way are the stains going to come out of the carpet, and they’ll probably have to reupholster the couch, and Abby’s dress is definitely ruined, and—

He can’t imagine dealing with it all right now, so instead he throws away the jar and picks up Abby to wash her off in the bathroom. He’s still kneeling in front of the tub when Eddie comes home. 

"Poppet, why does the living room look like a war zone?" his mate casually asks, leaning in the doorway.

"Daddy!" Abby squeals in delight as she flings suds across Pat’s cheek.

Eddie grins. “Hello, my little dove. Were you awful to daddy today?”

Abby giggles affirmatively, splashing like a tyrant, while Pat sighs in defeat and slumps back so his butt rests against his heels. “I need a night out,” he declares, wearily gazing up at Eddie.

His day has gone to hell, but at least Eddie’s tie is loosened a bit at his throat and he looks devastatingly handsome when he grins, “Of course.”

 

***

"This is bloody ridiculous. What am I supposed to wear?" Eames asks, hands on hips, as he examines the wardrobe. Lately, all he has are suits or jeans and t-shirts, and he certainly doesn’t have anything to wear whilst —even internally repeating the world makes a shiver race up his spine— _clubbing_. “I can’t believe you agreed to this,” he mutters.

Arthur is nonchalantly plucking his eyebrows in the bathroom — honest to God,  _plucking them_ , like this is all part of his routine and he’s perfectly accustomed to dancing around with twenty-year-olds. “You can wear whatever you want. You’re a bear,” he remarks, casually, as if Eames is supposed to have the slightest idea what he’s talking about.

Eames pokes his head out of the closet and asks: “Awha?”

He can see Arthur smile in the reflection of the mirror. “A  _bear_. It means a big, masculine man. You can wear whatever you want and look sexy.”

 _Oh_. Eames stares at him a few beats. “Well, what the bloody hell does that make you?” He feels slightly deceived that his mate has been walking around for decades with apparent encyclopaedic knowledge of the gay community, although the reality doesn’t really surprise him. After all, Arthur knows everything.

Arthur places the tweezers on the counter, finds Eames’s gaze in the mirror, and grins: “Well, I was a twink when I was younger,” he answers, pausing thoughtfully, “And I guess I’m a little bit of a twunk now.”

"You’re making up these words," he says, frowning.

"I swear, I’m not," Arthur laughs.

Eventually, the omega takes pity on him and joins Eames in the closet so he can help select an outfit for him. He picks a plain white t-shirt with a v-neck, and a faded pair of jeans. When Eames quirks an eyebrow, he smiles and says  _trust me_ , so he does. As always, Eames is deferential to Arthur’s sartorial tastes, and so he dons the shirt and denim, and even the charm necklaces Arthur chooses for him.

"I’m not underdressed?" Eames asks because being in a marriage for many years with Arthur has conditioned him to believe a tie is always, _always_ necessary.

"Not at all. You look cool," Arthur answers, brushing his hands down the front of the shirt and eyeing the parts of his chest and throat that are exposed. "Very sexy," he adds, a twinkle in his eyes.

Eames’s gaze gleams in reply.  _Interesting_. Suddenly, the prospect of a night out clubbing with the neighbors is much more appealing — at least, if Arthur thinks it’s a kinky kind of roleplaying. “And what are you wearing?” he asks, voice pitched low to the rumble he knows the omega likes.

His mate looks up at him and grins. “Take a seat and I’ll show you.”

***

He doesn’t really know what he expected, but it was not the skintight leather slacks and the (somehow) even tighter little black t-shirt. Arthur looks rather self-conscious as he slowly steps from the bathroom and turns for Eames’s benefit. “Too much?” he asks, which is a bloody ridiculous question considering Eames wants to peel off the outfit with his teeth. 

"Jesus," he sighs, wiping a hand across his face.

The omega apparently completely misconstrues his reaction because he frowns and faces the bureau mirror. “I feel silly, wearing this at my age,” he confesses, fingertips tracing his temple where a few grey hairs reside. “Maybe I’ll find something more…conservative.”

It’s ridiculous that Arthur feels inadequate, and he refuses to listen to his doubts for a second longer. Eames stands and walks closer, enjoying the view of his backside in the process. Arthur looks absurdly sexy — his rear pert and firm as the day they first met, and the leather exaggerates his curves in the best possible way. “You’re beautiful,” he exhales against the nape of his neck, fingers encircling Arthur’s biceps and squeezing gently. “I’m going to have to chase the other alphas away from you.”

When he peeks around Arthur’s dark head to the mirror, the omega is smiling back at him. 

***

They swing by the Alden’s to pick them up around nine o’clock, and Pat and Eddie are dressed more like they’re joining a church picnic than planning a night of debauchery. For example, they’re both wearing neatly pressed, collared shirts, and Pat’s eyes almost bug out of his head when he climbs into the backseat and spots what Arthur is wearing. “Holy cow!” he cries, and Eames nearly giggles because he’s so scandalised. “ _Arthur_ ,” he chastises, sounding more like his mate’s mother than his friend.

He’s filled with pride when Arthur offers a saucy smirk and innocently replies, “What?”

Eddie’s frowning face fills the rearview mirror. “You’re, uh,  _comfortable_ wearing that out? There will be other alphas at this place, I imagine,” and Eames can hear the undercurrent message loud and clear: Eddie is asking if he, Eames, is comfortable with Arthur wearing such provocative clothing in front of alphas. As always, beneath Eddie’s sometimes maddeningly archaic attitudes and opinions is a foundation of goodness. He considers Eames his best mate, and therefore Arthur is also his to protect, by extension.

Eames loops his arm behind Arthur’s seat as he gazes out the rear window and backs down the driveway. “I’ll level any bloke who looks too long at him,” he answers casually, winking at the Aldens, who smile nervously, as they always do when they can’t quite figure out if Eames is kidding or not. “And any ones I miss, Arthur can take care of,” he adds once the car is in the street. When he knocks the car into drive and winks at Arthur, the omega smirks.

Max and Ravi have agreed to watch Abby for the evening, so for once the Aldens won’t have to excuse themselves early for the sake of the baby. It’s obvious the new parents are giddy at the prospect, Eddie’s arm wrapped around Pat’s shoulders as he occasionally kisses the side of the omega’s neck, which for the Aldens is the equivalent of stripping naked and coupling in the backseat. Arthur keeps looking at Eames with exaggerated, raised eyebrows and the alpha has to look away quickly or he’ll burst out laughing.

Tonight is going to be very interesting indeed.

***

The club is enormous and dark and loud, and Eames immediately hates it until he sees Arthur’s predatory grin as he surveys the main room, which is comprised of a long bar and a sunken dance floor. It’s then that he realizes the half-naked young people everywhere, dancing and mingling, and carrying on as the youth of America are wont to do, might all be part of Arthur’s cunning plan. 

For an awkward few minutes, the four of them stand in the thick of it like hopeless old fogeys, helplessly looking around for a reprieve from the adolescent hormonal frenzy.

Arthur, unsurprisingly, is the one who kicks things into action. First, he finds them a table—specifically, a booth partially removed from the thrumming floor. Pat’s laughter is drowned out by the thumping bass when Eddie grabs him and pulls the omega onto his lap, and his smile glows under the backlight as he loops his arms around his mate’s neck. Next, Arthur announces he’s going to get them drinks, and Eames, not knowing what he’s supposed to do, dutifully follows Arthur to the bar until things get too crowded, at which point he hangs back and monitors the situation from afar.

Arthur looks perfectly comfortable standing at the bar, and Eames smirks when the alpha bartender takes one glance at him and hurries right over to take the omega’s order. His mate only waits for a few minutes, but in that time two different alphas approach him, and each time they interact for only a few seconds before the men nod and walk off, politely rebuffed. When Arthur returns, he’s carrying two drinks, and there’s a swagger in his step that was not there before.

Clearly, Arthur remembers he’s wildly attractive.

Eames grins wolfishly. “Having fun playing, darling?”

The omega coyly gazes at him: “I’m just getting started.”

Arthur leaves the two drinks with Pat and Eddie, who seem more than content to remain lost in their own personal universe, not that Eames blames them. He remembers how content he was to spend alone time with Arthur following the respective births of the sprogs. Eddie’s collar is unbuttoned now, and Pat tugs at it, smiling cheekily, and neither of them even seen to notice the drinks in front of them, so Eames supposes they won’t be missed when they slip away again and walk back to the bar.

Although, Arthur stops him from walking the entire way. He turns suddenly and orders (voice raised above the pulsating music): “Wait two minutes and come find me,” and then he’s gone.

He blinks slowly, but reflexively adheres to the plan because Arthur is now as he very much was when they worked in dreamshare. Actually, it feels as though they’re on the world’s weirdest job right now, and Eames has to stop himself from looking around, searching for a mark or Dominic Cobb. This is not a job, after all. This is his mate being bloody kinky. Eames is so lost in thought that he barely registers the body at his side until it presses against his arm, and he looks over to find a very young omega smiling up at him.

He’s cute — attractive in a way that does not really appeal to Eames — aesthetically pleasing in a fashion most alphas would find alluring, but the eagerness radiating off the lad does nothing for him. Eames has always enjoyed his omegas borderline hostile and brutally sharp, except for the times he was too drunk or high to care who shared his bed, but he knows all those times were terrible mistakes now that he has Arthur.

"Hey!" the omega cries over the music, pressing against him again. 

Eames takes a step back and smiles primly. “Hello,” he answers, glancing again to the bar. It’s been about a minute. Arthur is seated with a drink in front of him, but Eames can only see the back of his head. It reminds him of the first time they met — when Eames walked into a dive bar and clumsily tried to pick him up.

"What’s your name?" the blond asks.

A minute thirty seconds. “Tim,” Eames lies instinctively, shaking the youth’s hand when he offers it.

"I’m Parker. Do you want to dance?" he asks, the words wholly unwholesome in his mouth.

"I’m afraid I can’t, love," Eames answers, throwing in a wink that makes the young man smile even though he’s been rejected. It’s time, so he walks towards the bar, his broad shoulders commanding and insistent as they press forward, and the crowd separates until he can slide onto a stool directly beside his mate. "Jack Daniels, neat," he instructs the bartender, who is looking at Arthur, but must register the request because he nods and goes to make the drink. Eames doesn’t speak because he’s unsure of the game they’re playing. In a situation like this, it’s best to wait and to follow Arthur’s lead because Arthur always has a plan, and it’s always brilliant.

When the bartender returns with his drink, Eames hands him some cash. The other alpha nods and disappears, and that’s when Arthur turns to look at him. “Hello,” he says, and unlike before, with the little blond, this time the simple greeting sends an anticipatory shiver up Eames’s spine. Arthur’s dark eyes are hyper-alert, but there’s a glimmer there too, and Eames knows right away he’s up to something. “I’m Jason,” he says, extending a hand. 

Eames accept it, squeezing his cool fingers gently. “Bill,” he replies, back a little straighter, tone a bit more authoritative now that the ground is firm beneath his feet again. He notices Arthur has removed his wedding band, and in that moment Eames understands the game—it’s one they’ve played before, although not in such a crowded environment. But the idea excites him—that it’s here where Arthur will pretend to be someone else, a stranger, and he’ll have to pursue his mate as though they haven’t been married for many years. “Do you come here often?” he asks, reverting to the inane questions strangers ask each other when they’d really rather be shagging each other’s brains out.

Arthur’s little smile is knowing and deadly, and he doesn’t answer, but rather sips his beverage — something dark and amber, maybe rum. His hands dip under the counter’s lip and he swiftly removes his own ring, slipping it into his pocket. And still Arthur says nothing. Eames is just beginning to think he’ll have to recalculate his approach when his mate suddenly says, “I’m going to dance,” and glances down to the alpha’s hands, which is when he must notice the ring is gone because he smirks approvingly. Eames moves to get up at once because, if Arthur wants to dance, he’s more than game to join him, but when he tries to stand, Arthur places a hand against his shoulder and adds: “I want you to watch me.”

The alpha quirks a brow at him and smirks. Maybe he doesn’t know the game just yet. Eames slowly turns on the stool and reclines against the bar so he can watch Arthur prowl along the perimeter of the dance floor before slipping onto the teeming, neon-lit square. Before Arthur disappears into the crowd, he casts a sly grin over his shoulder and Eames frowns when he loses sight of him.  _Bloody Arthur_. He’s unsure if breaking character is wise, or if the omega will be cross if he does so, and Eames has just decided that, sod it, he’s ending the game and going to find his mate, when Arthur suddenly emerges at the edge of the crowd.

Many people would be surprised to learn that Arthur is quite a good dancer. It’s his rigid, formal demeanor that sometimes leads people to believe that he’s incapable of having fun (Eames himself laboured under that incorrect assumption for many years before he wised up). But actually Arthur is quite capable of laughing, goofing around, and indeed dancing. Most omegas are natural born twerkers, but Arthur especially has a gift for moving his hips in an alluring rhythm that interests not only his mate, but any warmblooded alpha within the immediate vicinity.

Arthur dances by himself, but not for long. Soon, a tall alpha approaches, eyes laser-like in their focus, and the man wordlessly presses up behind him, thick arms enriching Arthur’s slender waist. Eames launches off the stool and stalks towards the dance floor. He’s willing to role-play with Arthur, but even he has his limits. Of course, there’s no need to play the part of white knight because Arthur is already dealing with the matter, turning and pushing the man away, but then Eames is standing behind him, looming menacingly, and the stranger doesn’t know when to cut his losses.

The other alpha smirks, reaches down to grasp Arthur’s wrist, and pulls him deeper into the crowd. Eames follows and violently shoves the lad backwards, so he releases the omega and stumbles a few paces. “Fuck off,” Eames snarls, grabbing the front of his shirt and spitting the words right into his face. Peripherally, he’s aware some people have stopped dancing and are watching them, no doubt smelling the spike of pheromones, dreading the possibility of a fight between two alphas. 

"Stop!  _Stop_ ,” Arthur shouts, wedging his way between them, pushing the men apart. “We’re going to get kicked out,” he wisely observes, and when Eames looks up there are indeed a couple bouncers warily watching the action nearby, probably waiting for one of them to fuck up and swing at the other, which will be all the reason they need to kick out everyone in their parties.

"What’s his fucking problem?" the alpha slurs, jamming a finger in Eames’s general direction. "You know him?"

Arthur rolls his eyes, and for a second Eames thinks he’s going to drop the act completely, but then again, the former pointman’s commitment to plans has always been legendary. “I just met him,” he says, deliberately avoiding eye contact with Eames, who tries not to gape at him in response.  _All right, darling. Commitment, and all that_.

"So who’re you dancing with?" the brute continues, swaying and unsteady on his feet. Eames could probably knock out the wanker with one right hook, but he imagines Arthur would not approve of that strategy.

"I’m dancing with him," Arthur answers quickly, his hand resting squarely in the centre of Eames’s chest, and the gesture appears flirtatious, but Eames knows it’s also the omega’s way of keeping him pinned in place so he can’t charge forward when the other alpha sneers disdainfully at him.

"Fine, fuck the both of you," he mutters and storms off.

Eames quickly moistens his lips with the tip of his tongue and smirks at Arthur. “Fucking hell. I’m going to have to fight every alpha in here to take you home,” he jokes, head throbbing a bit from the surge of testosterone, and the unrelenting bass pumping from the subwoofers. Dancing couples occasionally bump into him, but unlike before, Eames’s hackles don’t raise. Now, he can smell Arthur again and he feels calm, although a little aroused, and he glances down to Arthur’s hand which still rests against his chest.

Arthur lifts his chin defiantly and answers: “What makes you think I’m going home with you?”

He stares in amazement at the omega as a random memory visits him: Sister Anne rapping his knuckles because of his terrible penmanship.  _All due diligence, Charles_. Eames smirks at Arthur, nods once, and slips back into Bill’s skin. He grabs Arthur, spins him, and presses against the hot column of his spine. He buries his face against the side of the omega’s neck, knowing Arthur delights in the burn and drag of his beard. His lips press along the curve of his neck, just once, before he mutters against his ear: “We’ll dance as long as you like, and then I’m going to fuck you.”

Arthur doesn’t speak, but Eames feels him tremble in his arms, and he smirks, feeling smug and victorious until the omega begins to move. It’s around the time Arthur’s clever hips start to undulate that Eames’s last coherent thoughts sail out of his head, replaced with a wholly consuming possessiveness. The twin leather-clad globes press against his crotch, teasing and grinding along to the rhythm of the bass, and Eames moans low in his throat. He’s consumed by the fleeting, naive hope that the music might cover up his wanton display, but when Arthur casts a wicked look over his shoulder and smirk, Eames knows his mate heard everything.

He compensates by kissing Arthur roughly, hand cupping his throat and stroking gently as they sway together. He feels, more than hears, the moment Arthur whimpers into his mouth, and Eames’s ego swells like a balloon. They duel like this for a bit, Arthur pressing back his hips and grinding against his rapidly hardening cock, Eames’s hand dipping down to not-so-discreetly grope between his legs. The club bouncers watch the floor, occasionally breaking up couples who are getting a bit too frisky, and sending them off to the back rooms, so Eames tries to be tricky with his manoeuvres. He steers Arthur to the back of the floor and points him toward the front wall when he yanks down the zipper of his leather trousers and sticks his hand inside.

"Eames," he moans.

His hand pauses. “Who?” he growls against Arthur’s ear, fingers wrapping around the omega’s rigid cock.

"Fuck," Arthur whines. "Sorry..Bill. I meant Bill," he moans, throwing back his head to rest against Eames’s shoulder, and still he continues to sway to the music, as though his body has disconnected from his brain.

The part of his mind that’s still online briefly registers they’ll have to move soon — that Eames cannot, in fact, fuck Arthur in the centre of the dance floor. But for now, he’s enjoying his mate shaking as his fist pumps. Arthur sighs and reclines his neck in an appealing way that distracts him, so he turns his chin and kisses the omega again, swallowing another whimper.

It’s then that a rather rude person roughly taps Eames on the shoulder. Begrudgingly, he separates from his beloved and scowls at the intruder, who turns out to be a weary-looking bouncer. The man is clearly accustomed to dealing with rowdy club-goers because he simply points to the hallway and commands: “Take it to the back.”

Eames assumes the appearance of a respectable gentleman, even though he’s completely disheveled and flushed, and his left hand is currently located down the front of Arthur’s slacks. He nods once and says, “Sir” in acknowledgement, which apparently is Arthur’s cue to dissolve into giggles like a thirteen-year-old child caught snogging by his father. He withdraws his wandering fingers and the omega quickly buttons his trousers before Eames grabs him by the hand and pulls him through the crowd, towards the side of the club that leads to the rooms.

"Wait, we can’t," Arthur gasps, trying to peel Eames’s hand off his wrist. "Pat and Eddie are—"

"Who?" Eames answers, the music a little fainter now that they’re in the hallway.

"Seriously, Eames. We should—"

He turns abruptly and pins the omega against one of the black walls. “Here’s what’s happening: I’m taking you back there and fucking you, and then you can go back to your friends, yeah?”

Eames watches the hypnotic bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallows thickly, and then the telltale muscle spasm on the side of his face when Arthur’s jaw tightens. That’s a look he only gets before a firefight or fucking, and Eames happens to know he’s the only man who could describe the expression to a police sketch artist. “Okay,” he replies hoarsely, his skin pale and damp with sweat. Already, he can feel the fight go out of him — in the way Arthur’s arm is limp when he drags him into one of the rooms — in the submissive arch of his spine when Eames throws him against the nearest wall, lifting his hips so the alpha can yanks down the leather slacks to pool around his boots.

"Turn," Eames orders, not having to raise his voice very much at all now that they’re inside a room. Dimly, he’s aware that they’re not alone — there are others somewhere farther inside, but it’s too dark to see them, and he’s not interested in them anyway. They can watch, if they want, but if anyone tries to touch Arthur, he’ll break their neck. Though there’s barely any light in the room, he can see the omega is soaked when he braces his forearms against the wall and spreads his legs. And even more than the sight of it is the  _smell_ that punches Eames in the face. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” someone groans, and it might be because they are engaged in a romp, or they’ve just caught wind of Arthur’s scent. All omegas smell heavenly to alphas, but Eames has smelled enough to know his mate possesses a particularly enticing aroma. He wrenches his jeans open and pushes down the elastic band of his underwear so his cock can finally spring out. They have to be quick or Arthur could potentially start a frenzy, and then Eames will have to fight their way out for sure. 

This is a stupid, reckless idea, but he can’t stop now — not when Arthur is displayed so beautifully before him. He grips the omega’s hips and simply squeezes and rubs the bone and flesh there, allowing the engorged head of his cock to trace up and down the soaked crevice of Arthur’s rear. “Eames,” his mate moans again, completely forgetting the game now, but he can’t bother to correct him.

Eames hushes him a moment before he presses the head against his opening and shoves inside, a broken yowl tearing from Arthur’s throat. “Fuck him,” the same voice instructs, and yes, now Eames knows the stranger is definitely watching them, but he doesn’t care. His whole world is now the space between Arthur’s thighs — that hot, wet vise. He grips the omega’s waist hard and pumps his hips forward, fucking him roughly and urgently, keenly aware that they must be quick. But the more instant his ministrations, the wetter Arthur becomes, and the louder the lewd suction sound resonating from between them. 

The cacophony of grunts from around them grows rowdier.

Arthur seems completely unaware of what’s happening, head bowed as he jerks at the end of Eames’s harsh thrusts. His fingers grope against the wall, seeking purchase, and he moans and whimpers pitifully, remaining ever the accommodating omega as he strains to bend his spine and offer his ass. “Oh God,” he cries, another wave of moisture pouring out of him.

The murmurs in the room grow louder, and for the first time Eames wonders how many alphas are hidden in the shadows. He tries not to think about it, instead gripping the back of Arthur’s shirt and bunching it in his fist like reins to drag the omega backwards to meet his thrusts. “Come for me, darling,” he grunts, glancing over his shoulder. There is no one standing close enough to see, but Eames knows they’re there. He can smell them. “Come on, love,” he growls, adding an extra dig at the end of each thrust, coaxing lovely whines from Arthur’s throat.

When Arthur begins to shake, Eames knows he’s coming, and he quickly pulls out, ignoring his mate’s whimpers of objection. Of course, Arthur wants to knot, but they can’t risk such a vulnerable position. The rational part of his brain knows they’re probably safe, but Eames is a man who was raised in sketchy dens of this nature, and he’s seen what happens to naive, trusting omegas who stagger into alphas’ lairs. Some bastards would take advantage of an aroused omega and take turns mounting him. In all likelihood, that would not happen, but Eames doesn’t know these men, so he doesn’t trust them. He quickly pulls up Arthur’s slacks, fastens them, then his own jeans, and drags the omega out of the room.

"Eames, wait. Eames," Arthur moans until they’re standing in the hallway again. Eames grabs him and kisses him again, letting Arthur claw weakly at his shirt and cling to him as he calms down. Ordinarily, they’d knot and then sleep, but that isn’t an option now. The embraces are less frantic now — slower and wetter, and each time they separate, Eames can tell Arthur is a little more coherent — a bit sharper, until finally his brow furrows and he glances at their surroundings. " _Fuck_ ,” he whispers.

Eames nods once.  _Indeed_. “You’re okay?” he asks, fingertips grazing Arthur’s cheek.

A slow grins curves his lips. “Yeah. Jesus,” he laughs, shaking his head a little. “I didn’t think…” he trails off.

But Eames knows what he isn’t saying.  _I didn’t think it would be that intense_. He grins and kisses his mate again. “What can I say? I’ve always had that effect on you.”

Arthur laughs — his real laugh — and punches Eames in the arm as they make their way back to the main floor. They’re both filthy beneath their clothes, and it’s time to go home for a shower and long slumber, but when they get back to the table, sweet little Patrick Alden is practically straddling dapper gent Edward, whose hands are none-too-innocent themselves, groping south of the border. 

Eames clears his throat and poor Pat nearly topples off Eddie, mumbling in excruciating embarrassment, “Sorry, sorry,” he babbles, smoothing his hair down and adjusting his collar. “Sorry,” he says again, for good measure, smiling in a terribly humiliated fashion. “It’s, um…been a while.”

Eddie looks less apologetic, but that’s probably because he can’t take his eyes off his mate, and Eames happens to know they’re not exactly the type of couple to take out their sexual frustration in a back room, so he proposes: “Let’s call it a night, shall we?”

Pat looks infinitely relieved when he smiles: “Oh, great. Yeah, let’s.”

The drive home is…interesting — the back seat nearly crackling with anticipation as the Aldens try, and fail, not to touch each other. Eddie touches Pat’s hand, which turns into Pat’s head on his shoulder, which turns into them kissing right up until Eames pulls up in front of their house. 

As for Arthur, his mate is sated and beautiful, dark hair matted to the head rest, his cheeks flushed a beguiling shade of pink. Eames keeps looking at him until Arthur smiles slyly at him: “You’re going to crash the car,” he notes.

Eames hums, fingertips drumming happily against the wheel. He keeps his eyes on the road after that.

"Sorry again," Pat says as Eddie practically drags him out of the car.

"Thanks for driving, old boy," Eddie says, tapping the top of the vehicle in additional thanks.

Arthur simply grins and waves as Eames back from the drive. The last thing he sees is Eddie fumbling for his keys as little Pat stands one step up so he can nuzzle at his cheek and laugh.


	56. Jack and Selena's date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack and Selena go on their first date

Jack has no idea what to do, and he has no one to call. It’s Friday night, and he’s meant to pick up Selena in a couple hours for their very first date, but he’s inexplicably lost the ability to choose an outfit, or to figure out if bringing a bottle of wine is romantic or too presumptuous. In the specter of Selena’s presence, he has once again lost the ability to woo, which is why he’s standing in front of his wardrobe, doors gaping and mocking him, as he stares blankly at all the articles of clothing.

He can’t call his parents because they’re his parents, and it’s pathetic for a man in his mid-20s to rely on them for dating advice, nor can he call Max because he’s Max and will probably cry from happiness if Jack indicates he’s extremely excited — to the point of mental paralysis — about his date with Selena. He ends up calling Rose, who answers on the third ring and sounds like she’s in the middle of mauling a bag of potato chips. She chews loudly into the phone as she greets: “Hello?”

Jack lays out the situation, then asks: “So it’s a nice restaurant, but I can get away with a collared shirt, but is a tie too much? I mean, is it too formal? Like, stuffy?”

Rose practically snorts: “Don’t let dad hear you call a tie  _stuffy_. He’ll crash through your wall.” That’s true. Jack can imagine the horrified look on Arthur’s face if he picked up Selena wearing a barely-passible shirt from J.Crew. More crunching fills his ear as Rose continues to eat what must be, disconcertingly, her dinner comprised solely of potato chips. “You should wear that blue suit. That looks nice on you. With a white collar shirt, and that blue tie.”

“Right, yeah. I forgot about that suit,” Jack rambles, leafing through the garments until he finds it —  _the_ suit, and yeah, he agrees with his sister. This one does fit him really well. Plus, he doesn’t think Selena has ever seen him wear it. He carefully lays out the suit on his bed, along with a shirt, and the tie he thinks Rose is talking about. He even selects a pair of socks and dress shoes and sets up the outfit in its entirety, like a deflated man, on the mattress. Then he steps back, phone cradled against his shoulder, and inspects the sartorial selection.

“You’re really nervous, huh?” Rose asks, grin emanating through the phone.

The immediate impulse is to counter with something cutting and petty, like pointing out too much sodium has historically always resulted in Rose breaking out in acne. But he doesn’t. He reminds himself that the  _old Jack_ would react that way, but he’s trying a new, calm, meditative approach to life, so instead he sucks in a deep breath and replies (honestly): “Yeah.”

This is what he’s trying lately: if he’s feeling vulnerable, he doesn’t try and hide it with mock bravado or sarcasm, and surprisingly, most people haven’t disappointed him. Rose doesn’t mock him, but instead replies: “That’s super cute, Jackie. I happen to know for a fact Ms. Selena is nervous as hell too.”

Jack nearly snaps the cell phone in half when his grip tightens. “What? Really? How? Did you talk to her?”

“Yup!” his sister replies, happy and annoying. “ _And_ I helped her pick our her outfit,  _and_ I happen to know she’s going to look smoking hot, so have fun with thaaaat,” she sings the last word, right before hanging up on him.

Goddamnit, Rose.

***

_Ten Minutes Earlier_

Rose has no food in her apartment, and she can’t drive by her dads’ because they’ll think she’s living like a boxcar hobo if she admits she hasn’t gone grocery shopping in a couple weeks. It’s just, she’s been so busy with work, and usually eats her meals at restaurants, so the refrigerator is usually empty. All she has is a bag of Lay’s potato chips in the pantry, which will have to do for dinner, and she’s just sat down in front of the television and ripped open the bag when her cell phone vibrates across the coffee table.

“Yello?” she greets, even though she already knows it’s Selena because the photo she’s assigned to the omega’s contact number flashed across the screen — the only photo in existence where Selena doesn’t look totally perfect, and Rose acquired when she barged into the women’s bathroom at work one day and took it as the omega was coming out of the bathroom stall. She looks pale and startled in the photo, eyes bulging, mouth already in the middle of a confused exclamation ( _Rose, you psycho! What are you doing?_ being her exact words). Rose treasures the photo because it’s concrete proof Selena is not an alien sent to earth to make lowly betas such as herself feel insecure in her presence.

“Hey! It’s me. You have to help,” Selena says, breathless. “I’m standing here like an idiot. I have no idea what to wear.”

She chuckles and sets aside the bag of chips. All week, Selena has been playing it cool, pretending as though she hasn’t been agonizing over every little detail of her upcoming date with Jack. What Selena means by  _I have no idea what to wear_ is she very much has an  _idea_ of what to wear, but she can’t pull the trigger on the final decision. That’s what Rose is for. “What have you narrowed it down to?”

“Okay,” Selena exhales, as if profoundly relieved Rose is going to help, and not belittle. “I have that blue backless dress…”

“Uh-huh. That one is nice. What else?”

“The red one.”

Rose snorts. “The red one, Selena.”

She’s profoundly unaccustomed to hearing doubt in the omega’s voice when she asks: “You’re sure?”

Slumping back against the couch, Rose rolls her eyes and sighs. She honestly doesn’t know what she’s going to do with Selena and Jack. They’re hopeless messes, the both of them. “Trust me. He won’t know what to do with himself when he sees you in that dress.”

***

The plan is for Jack to pick up Selena and take her to the restaurant — the very, very nice (and expensive) restaurant that everyone, including his dads, approve of. Jack parks the car by the curb, cuts the engine, and sits there for a good minute and a half before his phone lights up and he looks down to see an all-caps message from Rose on the screen:  _GET OUT OF THE CAR AND WALK TO THE DOOR, JACKIE_.

He glares at the phone and then glances in the rearview mirror, believing for a ridiculous second that his sister has followed him and is currently parked just behind his vehicle. But no, Rose is miles away at her apartment, but she knows Jack well enough to know he’s freaking out and might need a last minute pep talk.

He sucks in a deep breath and climbs out of the car. It’s easy after that: walking up the pathway and knocking the door. In fact, everything goes swimmingly until Selena opens the door and Jack nearly has a heart attack on her stoop.

She’s a vision in red. While the omega always looks lovely, she has previously emitted loveliness in a strictly professional manner. Never before has she worn in his presence fabric that clings to her curves like a second skin, complete with a plunging neckline to reveal cleavage that in all likelihood makes the angels weep. For once, Selena has literally let her hair down, and the locks frame her beautiful face in soft waves. 

But then, it occurs to Jack that he might be staring, and he collects himself and offers what he hopes is a charming smile. “Hey. You look great.”

Selena smiles, but again it’s different than the in-office smiles she’s given him before. This one is flirty—maybe even a little shy. “Thanks. You too. Very smart,” she adds approvingly, eyeing the suit. Jack makes a mental note to thank his sister later. 

“Shall we?” he asks, offering his arm.

***

She’s the most beautiful omega in the whole restaurant — probably the whole city — Jack mentally revises as he gazes across the table. Selena is clearly excited to have secured a table in the most-desired restaurant in Los Angeles (six month waiting list, minimum), and she casts furtive looks around the place, but Jack knows her well enough to understand she’s filing away details for to recite later. She probably doesn’t notice the looks some of the other alphas flash her, but Jack is keenly aware of all of them, and the desire and jealousy therein. It makes him feel proud and protective to know Selena is the object of their lust, and yet he also feels amused and charmed that the omega apparently doesn’t realize how attractive she actually is.

Selena draws her confidence, not from her sexuality, but from precision and professionalism. In a business suit, she’s a warrior. Here, she’s vulnerable and sweet.

It’s after they order a bottle of wine and hors d’oeuvres that Max’s words echo in his head:  _Ask her about her interests_.

Jack’s spine straightens and he asks: “So…tell me about what you do when you’re not fixing all our mistakes.”

It’s apparently the right thing to say because Selena smiles brightly and laughs — full-throated and rich, and Jack decides right then and there that it’s his favorite sound. “Well, let’s see. I really like movies, relaxing and listening to music…playing music, too,” she adds, and when Jack looks at her, surprised, she adds with a sheepish grin: “I play the stand up bass.”

“You’re joking,” Jack laughs. “How can you even hold it up?” Selena is, after all, a very slight woman.

Selena smirks. “I manage just fine, thank you very much.” She leans forward and whispers conspiratorially. “I play gigs sometimes at coffee houses.”

“Get out. Do you use a fake name?” Jack grins, elbows leaning on the table as he bows his head close to Selena’s.

The little candle in the center of the table casts an ethereal glow across her pale skin as she smiles: “Yeah, but you can’t tell  _anyone_ what it is. Okay? You swear?” When Jack nods, she whispers: “Lois Lane.”

As if he wasn’t already totally in love with her. 

Jack recovers quickly so he can ask more questions about Selena and her life. He already knew the van Dijks raised her — “adopted her,” in Selena’s own words, but she fills in the blanks for him. Like Arthur, she was orphaned at an early age. She never learned if her parents died of natural causes, were killed, or put her up for adoption, and Selena adds she doesn’t want to know the answer. Her life is the one she has created for herself — not the unanswered questions of her past. Madeline van Dijk was the largest donor to the orphanage where Selena was raised, and when she was six-years-old the late Mrs. van Dijk spotted Selena playing and at once requested to adopt her.

“I have no idea why she chose me,” Selena says, shrugging meekly. “I mean, sometimes I wonder if it could have been a different kid, or if it was _meant_ to be me, but….that kind of thinking can be destructive, you know?”

Jack nods slowly. He does indeed understand the consequences of destructive thinking, and he has replayed many moments in his life, pondering if he could have altered the course of everything simply by making a different choice. “I was kidnapped…when I was a little boy,” he says, unable to stop the words from pouring out of him. But Selena doesn’t react in a way that makes him regret the confession. She simply watches him, brow furrowed earnestly until he continues: “I used to wonder stupid things, like…what if I had fought harder? What if I had gotten away and run back into the house? Little things, like that…”

Selena nods slowly. “Kids do that…place hopeless wagers. I used to think I would attract better adoptive parents if I was extra good and polite every single day,” she adds, with a wry smirk. “Like they were Santa Claus and always watching me.” Jack chuckles, chin tilted down, so he sees the moment Selena lays her hand across his, and he can’t tear his eyes away from the sight, not even when she whispers: “I’m glad you turned out the way you are.”

Over the course of their dinner, he’s amazed (and pleased) to learn Selena has a wicked sense of humor, which suddenly makes her friendship with his sister make much, much more sense. “Rose is so weird,” Selena summarizes, her voice soaked in fondness as she smirks.

“ _So_ weird,” Jack agrees, grinning crookedly.

“But she’s great,” the omega adds, “She was the first person who made me feel really welcome in dreamshare.”

Jack winces a bit at the thought of how rude he’s been leading up to this moment. “I wanted to apologize…for my behavior when we first met,” he sighs, unsure of how to proceed, but decides to stick with his new philosophy of truthfulness: “I had— _have_ …an unholy crush on you and I didn’t know how to process my feelings because I’m extremely fucked up.”

Selena smiles brightly. “Fucked up in a dark, brooding, sexy way? Or fucked up in a Rose-is-going-to-receive-a-tragic-phone-call-tomorrow kind of way?”

He winks before plucking his wine glass from the table. “The first one, I assure you.”

***

All in all, he thinks dinner went very well, and judging by the lingering pace Selena sets on their way back to the car, she’s in no hurry for the night to end, even though it’s a bit chilly outside now and her arms are crossed for warmth. Jack slips off his jacket and puts it around her slender shoulders and she smiles up at him. They’re paused by the car, and he’s just trying to figure out a good time to kiss her, when his phone vibrates in his pocket. “Shit, sorry,” he chuckles, fishing it out as Selena watches on, an amused glimmer in her gaze.

It’s Arthur — specifically, a frazzled Arthur, asking him a series of confusing questions that Jack doesn’t understand, mostly because he thinks they’re nonsensical, but also because he can’t look away from Selena and her gorgeous face. Finally, though, he focuses in time to detect a few words: _Taj_ ,  _bear_ , and  _suicide_ , and he finally understands. Baby Taj has a favorite stuffed bear Ravi gave him, and he goes ballistic if he can’t sleep with it, and said bear is missing, and Arthur apparently thinks Jack has it because Jack watched Taj yesterday, and had the bear during that time. 

He’s about to dismiss the charge as absurd until he glances in the backseat and, sure enough, sees the bear staring back at him.  _Shit_.

“Is everything okay?” Selena asks, adorable and small wrapped in his jacket.

“Uh, yeah,” he sighs. “Mind if we make a pitstop?”

***

“Oh my God. Please tell me you have the bear,” Arthur greets, voice barely audible above the shrill screams of Baby Taj. Eames is in the living room, pacing as he bounces the poor, red-faced baby in his arms in a futile effort to calm the boy. It’s only after he blurts out that initial plea that Arthur notices Selena standing shyly behind Jack. “Oh no. Were you guys—?” Jack answers with a sheepish smile. “I’m really sorry, guys,” Arthur sighs, taking the bear from him. “Emergency, you know? Max and Ravi needed a day off, so we volunteered. I didn’t want to disturb them.”

“It’s okay. Really,” Selena answers, and then frowns. “Poor little mite.”

Arthur delivers the vessel to Eames. “Look, bean. Who’s that?” he asks in an excited voice, and Taj instantly stops crying like they just closed off a spigot. He sniffles, eyes wide, and pulls the bear close to his chest. “Oh, thank Christ,” the alpha sighs, belatedly waving towards the door. “Thank you, children. You’ve saved us from a suicide pact.”

“I can take him,” Arthur offers, but suddenly Selena steps out from behind Jack.

“Let me. You guys must be exhausted,” she offers, already shedding the skin of sweet, date-time Selena and slipping into her role as Serious Professional—always ready to lend a helping hand. This is what points do: fix problems, and Jack sees the moment Arthur registers what’s happening.

He smiles knowingly and nods to Selena as she approaches the alpha. “You remember Selena, don’t you, Eames? We met her briefly at Cobb’s barbecue.”

“Of course,” Eames purrs, adding: “Hello, dear,” as he hands her baby Taj, who is now mouthing at the bear’s ear and watching the omega with wide, wary eyes.

It does occur to Jack that perhaps Selena is attempting to win the good graces of his fathers, who he happens to know are dreamshare legends, and whom Selena has referenced  _multiple_ times as being two shining examples of the “good ol’ days” of professionalism. She sighs the name _Arthur_ with a kind of reverence usually reserved for Hollywood celebrities, heads of state, or saints. 

Selena gathers the baby into her arms, and Jack just knows the baby is going to get drool and God knows what else all over his suit jacket, but he can’t summon the urge to care. The omega looks adorable like this, in an oversized jacket, carefully cradling his nephew as she makes a series of goofy and thoroughly un-Selena-like faces at him until he offers up a wide, happy smile.

“I say, he likes you,” Eames notes, clearly impressed. “But then, I’ve noticed he likes pretty omegas,” he adds, winking at Arthur, who immediately rolls his eyes.

“Stop it. Can you guys watch him for a second? The twins are in the guest room, and actually slept through everything, if you can believe it. But we should check on them.”

His parents disappear into Rose’s old room. Jack flashes a smile Selena’s way and slowly crosses the room as he points out: “You know, my parents like you already. You don’t have to woo the baby to win them over.”

She smiles sheepishly, Taj balanced on her hip as she bounces him ever-so-slightly—just enough to lull him. “You don’t get it because they’re your parents, but…Arthur is pretty much like my Paul McCartney,” she confesses, voice lowered so they won’t hear. “Or…John Lennon. Whoever you like more.”

Jack wrinkles his nose. “Never really cared for The Beatles.”

Rolling her eyes, Selena gently bumps into him with her other shoulder. It’s a tender chastisement—familiar and fond, and causes Jack’s heart to skip a beat. “You know what I meant. It just means a lot to meet them, you know?”

The impulse is strong to reach up and tuck one of the errant waves behind her ear—to tenderly caress her cheek and kiss her, but he can’t. Not here and not now. “I know,” he agrees quietly, which is when Arthur and Eames appear in the living room again. Jack takes half a step back, clears his throat and calls to them: “I’ve wanted to introduce you properly for ages. Selena, as you know, is Uncle Dom’s point woman, and she’s brilliant.”

He’s never seen Selena really embarrassed before, but he decides right then and there that he adores the flush of her cheeks and her shy smile. Her immediately reaction, of course, is to deflect. “I’m just trying to keep up with Jack. He’s the best forger I’ve ever seen.”

“Ah, that’s only because you’ve never seen me,” Eames interjects playfully—sort of. He and Jack have always enjoyed a somewhat cheeky rivalry.

“We should go under together sometime and let Selena decide who’s better,” Jack suggests, smirking.

To his great surprise, Eames shrugs and says, “Sure.” When Eames glances to Arthur, to Jack’s  _even greater surprise_ , his omega father answers with a dark little look glimmering in his eyes:

“Yeah. That could be fun. I haven’t been under in many years.”

For a moment, Jack thinks Selena might faint from sheer joy. “That…would be… _amazing_ ,” she gushes. “I have about a million questions for the both of you. I’m really interested in the history of dreamshare, you know? Mr. Cobb has a lot of stories, but he forgets some of the details, and he always says  _Oh, Arthur was always good with the details_ , but you’re not there to ask. Except, now you  _are_ here to ask, and Mr. Cobb always says _Mr. Eames was the best — the very best forger_ —“

Eames’s brows raise comically high on his forehead. “Dom said that?”

Arthur smirks, casting a look his way. “I keep telling you. He respects you more than I do.” He looks back to Selena and offers a fond smile. “We look forward to it.”

***

Afterwards, Jack drives them back to Selena’s apartment, an awkward kind of oppressive silence serving as a barrier between them the whole way. He realizes it’s anticipation. All the other moments of the date had been carved into neat, bite size minutes, clearly demarcated thanks to social norms. Of course Jack would not kiss Selena in the restaurant, or in front of his parents while she was cradling his nephew, but he  _could_ and _might_ kiss her at the end of their evening.

The very thought makes his throat feel tight and his fingers grip the steering wheel with an iron grip. This feeling of trepidation is new for him—the former football star, the charming alpha all the girls wanted. But Jack never wanted anyone as much as he wants Selena, and while he’s more sure than ever she feels the same way, he’s still unspeakably nervous that he might ruin their first intimate embrace, and that will forever be Selena’s impression of him.

He hasn’t sorted out what exactly he’s going to do—not when he parks the car, not even when they’re standing in front of her door and she casts a timid, nervous smile his way. Before he can work out what to say, she tries to remove his jacket and return it, but Jack holds up his hand. “It’s okay. I can get it later.”

She flashes the soft smile again, and he can’t bare it a moment longer. He reaches down and cups her pale face, taking a selfish moment to feel the warmth of her skin against his fingertips. Selena exhales, and it sounds like relief, which is when Jack understands that she’s been waiting for him to be brave and overcome all his pointless bullshit and insecurities. She’s been waiting for him so they can start this, and everything that comes after this, together. 

Jack tilts back her head and crushes their lips together—perhaps too roughly because she whimpers, but her fingers seize the front of his shirt in a fierce, uncompromising grip. He grabs her by the waist and pulls her close, the warmth of her skin radiating through her dress, her breasts pressing into his chest, and beneath it all, the fluttering of her heartbeat. Selena whimpers again, and it’s too much for him. He takes a step forward and pins her against the door, and she responds by throwing her slender leg across his hip.  _Fuck_ , he thinks helplessly, reaching down to grip the hem of her dress and push it higher, so he can can kiss her and grope the soft flesh of her thigh.

This is not the chaste embrace he had striven for, but when Selena’s tongue dips into his mouth, he finds he doesn’t care. Her fingers touch his face reverently, drifting higher to comb through his hair, freeing it from the pomade. He’s surprised by the passionate embrace, and in turn encouraged by the now indisputable truth that Selena wants him as much as he wants her. When they part to find their breath, he grips her chin and tilts her head to the side so he can bury his face against the curve of the omega’s neck and breathe in her scent. He’s only gotten whiffs of her pheromones before — passing sniffs, pathetic crumbs he greedily gobbled up. But now he is awash her sweet, vanilla aroma. “You smell so good,” he groans, and in response her fingers tighten in his hair and the back of his dress shirt.

“Jack…” she gasps, a plea.

 _Right. Yes, of course_. They untangle and he steps back, smirking self-consciously because he was completely lost there for a moment, and they both know it. But Selena was lost too, and that is very interesting indeed. She’s leaning against the door, flushed and breathless. In that moment, she’s the most beautiful person he’s ever seen.

“I want to see you again,” he rasps. It seems silly to say it aloud because _of course_  she wants that too, but he’s possessed by the need to clarify where they stand—what they mean to each other.

She nods, chest rising and falling in deep swells as she attempts to catch her breath. Jack is suddenly furious at the presence of his jacket. He wants to strip it, and the red dress, off her so he can see all her stark glory. “Next Friday?” she asks, her voice frail.

He wants to demand her attention tomorrow, but thinks better of it. Selena will go to bed tonight—she might even take his jacket with her—and wrap herself in his scent. Maybe she’ll dream about him and the kiss. Perhaps more. She might imagine what could have happened had Jack entered the apartment with her, grabbed her, pushed up her dress and pulled aside her underwear so he could push inside her wet heat.

That will all happen one day. He’s sure of it now. Jack steps forward, affection and desire swelling in his chest when he detects a small tremor vibrating through Selena’s body due to his close proximity. “Next Friday,” he agrees, stooping down to kiss her again. She makes the same lovely noise—a bit softer this time, and he quickly separates before anything else can happen. Taking one last look at her flushed face, he departs from the stoop, and doesn’t look back again.

If he looks back, he’ll go to bed with her tonight, and that will be a mistake. 

When it happens, he wants Selena’s body taught with tension like a bow. He wants her every nerve ending alive with desire so that she comes the moment he breathes across her neck. Jack is a greedy man, and he wants to devour her, but at the right time.

He unrolls the window and drives fast along the highway, the wind cool as it whips across his face, a much obliged anchor to reality. Selena’s face still fills his vision, like light traces from a camera’s flash. Every time he blinks, she’s gazing up at him, smiling tenderly. The cell phone buzzes and he fishes it from his pocket, smirking when he sees the message from his sister:

HOLY SHIT. WHAT HAPPENED. SELENA JUST SAID THAT WAS THE BEST DATE OF HER LIFE. OMG TELL ME EVERYTHING!!!!1111

He ignores the message, of course. If Selena wants to provide details, that’s her own choice, but he won’t play the part of gossip. In the past, that was not the case. If his nosey sister wanted to know about his various conquests, he would tell her enough vague details to sate her. But this time is different. Selena is not just another conquest. 

He knows now that she’s his mate, and there’s no need to rush things.


	57. Rose in limbo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose falls into limbo

The balcony doors are open, white chiffon curtains billowing gently in the breeze, while the sounds of the street bubble below: car engines, a child laughing, a man talking too loudly. Eames’s French is rusty, but he gets the gist: someone has ripped off the poor bastard and he’s contesting the price of a bill. It’s hot, but pleasantly so—the kind of heat that appeals to them both: Eames because it reminds him of Africa, and Arthur because it gives them a good reason to throw open the windows and “let the real Paris in,” as the omega puts it.

It’s just rained, and though the city is all concrete and pavement outside, somehow everything still smells like the earth. He observes this perched on his stool, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbows as he considers the blank canvas propped against the easel. Eames likes painting here — on the second floor of this flat they’ve been renting for….well, he can’t remember how long, exactly. The building was constructed in the 18th century, and he loves its slightly warped wooden floors and the cabinet doors that moan good morning whenever he opens them to fetch his tea mug.

He’s been wildly productive since they began living here in the 4th arrondissement. Maybe it’s the air, or the rich food, or the fact that Parisian culture relaxes him like a generous dose of morphine. Whatever the case, there are completed paintings lining the temporary space of his studio, with additional pieces stacked along the floor. He’s mostly just doodling, though Arthur calls each and every one of them a masterpiece, and he’s trying to convince Eames that he should sell some of them. But Eames has never painted for monetary gain, outside of the few times he painted forgeries to sell on the black market. A few of those still hang in museums, including _Le Louvre_.

(They stood in front of Caravaggio’s  _Death of the Virgin_  as Arthur furrowed his brow and seriously considered the morbid scene: the supple figure splayed supine before a horde of curious male onlookers. The mother of Jesus, portrayed more like a satisfied prostitute: the lolling head, a limp arm, the red dress, her serene face. It is a heretic’s depiction of Mary — the work of an outsider, a nonbeliever, one who speaks in crude euphemisms. 

“It’s good,” Arthur commented, because of course he did. It’s dark and fucking depressing. Arthur’s taste exactly.

“You like it?” he purred, brows quirked.

Arthur took one look at him and smirked because  _he knew._ )

No, Eames paints because it brings him pleasure twice: first when he creates something from nothing, and again later when Arthur sees it and the creation burns bright and hot again as the omega smiles, eyes sparkling. 

“Eames…”

Speaking of which. Eames sets down his brush and stands the moment he hears his mate’s voice and walks from the small studio (a renovated closet), down the short hallway, and into the bedroom. It’s the largest room in the flat, containing a king size bed, an armoire, a writing desk, and ceiling-to-floor balcony doors. Arthur is sprawled across the mattress, clad in a vest and trousers, the sleeves of his shirt also rolled up to expose his forearms that are crossed behind his head.

Arthur looks more relaxed than Eames has ever seen him, and personally he credits French culture. It’s been mesmerizing to watch the point man unravel here, relaxing in increments, coming undone until the shell completely disappeared and left only the raw, malleable core.  _Arthur in the Nude_. The omega is the subject of more than a few of the canvases stored in the other room. 

“You rang, my sweet?”

Arthur hums happily at the sound of his voice, chin dropping towards his clavicle so he can look at the alpha. This is what they do these days: laze about, sleep late, make love, brunch for hours, walk, read, paint. It’s every luxury they could never afford as louse criminals on the run, constantly looking over their shoulders, peering suspiciously at strangers, wondering: _Is he the one? Is he the bastard who will put a bullet in my back?_  During those years, for Eames, it was a question of  _when_ , not  _if_. He never allowed himself to imagine this kind of happiness and peace could ever be for a man like him.

“I feel like we’ve forgotten something,” he says, exactly zero concern contained within his words. It’s an idle thought, as though Arthur is considering the shape of clouds. 

“Ah, we have. It’s lunch,” Eames responds cheekily, climbing onto the bed, and framing Arthur with his forearms.

His mate smiles happily, reaching up to drag him down by the front of his shirt so they can kiss lazily until Eames’s stomach rumbles and it really is time to eat something.

***

The cafe on the corner is small, consisting of two tables, a little patio area, and a surly old owner who hates the both of them, but whom Eames possesses an inexplicable fondness for. (He has a history of being drawn to hostile figures). They’re at their usual table — the one by window — Eames nursing his tea, having just polished off a delicious club sandwich, and Arthur working on a latte having just conquered a Cobb salad, of all things. Arthur ordered his lunch vindictively, a victorious gleam in his dark eyes as if it was a personal slight to their former employer.

He can’t remember when they worked their last job for Dominic Cobb, but he thinks it’s been a few weeks — perhaps a month. Regardless, Arthur already exhibits the physical manifestations: the bags have vanished from beneath his eyes, and he wears his hair free from any pomade or gel, the soft waves free to frame his face, occasionally idly tucked behind an ear. He looks all of eighteen-years-old, and Eames can’t stop staring at him, which he’s allowed to do these days without Cobb telling him to knock it off and focus on his work.

Quite suddenly, a look of concern falls across Arthur’s face, his brow furrowed in a way he hasn’t seen since their days in dreamshare. “We were supposed to do something…” Arthur says again, staring into the bottom of his coffee mug.

When the old thick panes of window glass rattle in their wooden frames, Eames smiles faintly and covers Arthur’s hand with his own. “We’re doing it, Arthur. This is what we’re meant to be doing, darling.”

Upstairs, in one of the apartments adjacent to the cafe, the first notes of _Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien_ drift from an open window.

***

Sometimes Eames strolls the streets by himself, just to appreciate a few quiet, solitary moments where he can explore the city and sort his thoughts. Oftentimes, this is when he finds inspiration for his paintings. He’ll come across a flower, or various bric-a-brac, and the colors speak to him. He’ll buy it at once with the cash in his pocket, hurry home, prop up the object in his studio, and paint for hours.

On one of his ritualistic forays, he decides to pop into a little cafe and order a cup of tea so he can sit by the front window and read today’s edition of _Le Monde_. The pretty young waitress knows him by now, and he doesn’t have to make the usual pleasantries when he walks in. She simply brings him his tea as he likes it and then leaves him alone, which he appreciates. At least, that’s their normal interaction. For some reason today, their arrangement is different. She places the tea cup in front of him, but lingers just to his left. He looks up to her and flashes a smile. “Yes?” he asks pleasantly.

She’s blonde with full pink lips and bright blue eyes, and he’s again struck by the fact that she is very pretty indeed, but beyond that she also looks familiar. Eames wants to ask if he knows her from somewhere, but she speaks (in a flat, tinny American accent) before he can inquire: “I was just…wondering if you needed anything else.” His gaze flits to the brimming tea cup and he smiles slightly in order to answer her question. She laughs, but it’s a breathy, nervous sound. “Yeah, just…keep me posted, I guess, if you need anything.”

Eames watches her turn and walk back to the counter and wonders what the bloody hell that was all about.

***

Rose opens her eyes when the timer runs out, Ravi’s furrowed brow and frowning face being the first thing she sees upon waking.

“Well?” he asks, and it takes a few seconds before she remembers why they sent her under in the first place.

She sits up slowly, accepting her brother-in-law’s hand when he offers. As she gathers her wits, Ravi slips the line from her wrist and the room swims for a second, but then the details come into focus: Uncle Dom and Jack standing shoulder-to-shoulder (faces perfect masks of detached professionalism belied only by the tremor of concern in their gazes), the recliners, and her fathers splayed back in them, wires dangling from their wrists.

She shakes her head slowly: “He still doesn’t remember me.” She sighs and wipes her palms on her knees as she looks up at her uncle. “Is this normal?”

Uncle Dom hums in a way that means he is very wise, and she has once again asked a rather juvenile, naive question. “Hard to say. They haven’t been under in a while and they might have…forgotten how to anchor themselves in the dream.”

“What do you mean forgotten?” a soft voice asks, which is the first time Rose remembers Selena is here too. The point woman is standing just behind Rose. She’s probably been watching her the whole time, monitoring her vitals. “How long will it take them to remember?”

Unlike his young proteges, Uncle Dom doesn’t seem concerned. He waves his hand through the air: “This happens every now and again. Did they seem distressed?” he asks Rose, who considers the question for a moment before shaking her head slowly. He gestures to her as if she’s answered their concerns. “So they’ll wake when they wake.”

***

At first, having Arthur and Eames with them inside the dream was fun and interesting. For the first time ever, Rose got to see Arthur build — and boy, can he ever build. Arthur constructed entire cityscapes, intricately detailed, in the blink of an eye, and all the while Eames peppered the sidewalks with his forges, delighting in his ability to surprise and confuse them all. He and Jack engaged in a friendly sort of competition, trying to outdo each other until her brother finally (finally) had to concede that he’s no match for their father.

And Selena took notes (honest to God  _notes_ ) as she followed Arthur around and watched him work, brow furrowed, nodding thoughtfully as he offered little nuggets of advice about working point inside dreams. 

Arthur has a preternatural gift for details, and she also learned, a photographic memory. When she picked up a copy of  _As I Lay Dying_  and flipped through the pages to see that her father had duplicated the entire text, she blinked owlishly and looked up at Uncle Dom, who grinned and shrugged: “That’s Arthur for you.”

Yeah…

But soon her fathers began to disappear for long periods of time, and the cityscape changed from a quasi-New York City to a version of Paris that, over the weeks, began to mirror the real thing too closely. Uncle Dom frowned one day as he peered up at an exact replica of the Arc de Triomphe and murmured: “We might have a problem.”

Which, of course, was a severe understatement.

Her fathers became lost in the dream, believing they actually lived together in Paris, and slowly they forgot their children’s faces. Uncle Dom tried to intervene after that, stopping Eames on the sidewalk one day, but the alpha simply sidestepped their uncle as he cheerfully replied:  “Sorry, mate. I don’t have any change.”

Jack wanted to do something crazy like pull their lines out to wake them, but Uncle Dom advised against it. “It’s too traumatic and they might think reality is the dream,” he explained wearily. As he gazed at the prone figures of their fathers, he looked ancient — maybe a little scared. “They have to remember on their own.”

So they waited. They’re  _waiting_.

But her fathers continue to dream.

Jack lost his cool — panicked, really — and immediately turned on their uncle, red-faced with that vein bulging at the side of his neck as he shouted accusations regarding the man’s professionalism and incompetence. 

To his great credit, Uncle Dom never lost his temper, instead calmly explaining: “This is an imprecise science. It always has been. The important think is to keep them calm until they remember.”

Which is how Rose became the waitress spy. Day after day, she sits in the cafe and waits until her father enters — a younger version of himself — dapper and handsome and carefree as he smiles breezily at her and requests his usual cup of tea. He never remembers her. Sometimes, she tries to drop hints. She once asked if he wanted to try a cup of rose bud herbal tea in the hopes that hearing her name would spur his memory, but he simply smiled his polite, detached smile, and declined the offer.

This goes on for a year-and-a-half inside the dream, Rose dipping in and out, coming up only to consult with her uncle, brother, and colleagues. When she awakes, there is always a new combination of people huddled nearby — the one constant being her uncle, who never seems to leave the workspace. He’s sometimes seated nearby her fathers, usually closest to Arthur, watching the omega, deep worry lines framing his eyes.

She always brings him bad news — or rather, no news.

Arthur and Eames still believe they are twenty-somethings having a mad affair in Paris.

And Uncle Dom just nods and says some version of: “Keep trying.”

Her brother refuses to participate. He’s furious, thinks the plan is  a waste of time, and frequently makes his objections known. But he’s overruled by cooler heads, most notably Selena, who has developed the ability seemingly overnight to shut down Jack’s tantrums. He rages, saying awful things about Uncle Dom being careless and responsible for any tragedy that befalls their fathers inside the dream, until Selena intervenes, laying a hand against his arm, and Rose can see the anger drain out of him in an instant.

She creates a little apartment above the cafe and sleeps there, setting her alarm every day for thirty minutes before Eames is due to arrive. Then she goes downstairs and stands by the counter, waiting, one time clad in a dress she wore during her high school graduation. It’s long and white with lace around the bottom hem of the flared skirt. She remembers Eames’s glowing face when he saw her in it, calling her a princess, but this time he glances only briefly in her direction, and he says nothing about the dress.

He doesn’t remember.

Rose awakes one time to find Uncle Dom connecting IV bags to her fathers’ wrists. He eventually notices she’s conscious and offers her a sad gaze, and that’s the moment when the direness of the situation finally hits her. He’s afraid Arthur and Eames will die of dehydration because they’re not going to wake up anytime soon.

It goes on for so long that Ravi is forced to tell Max, who becomes a permanent fixture at the office, red-eyed, sometimes crying as he sits by Eames’s chair and strokes his forehead. She can’t bear the sight, so she asks to go under more and more frequently, ignoring her uncle’s objections. She’s an experienced dreamer now, so she insists everything is fine.

But it’s not. 

Sometimes, she works entire days in the cafe forgetting her purpose there, and she becomes an American girl working as a waitress in Paris, and Eames is just another customer. So far, she has managed at the last second to remember the mission, but only because she squeezes her totem inside her fist so hard the crushed penny leaves an indentation in her skin. It’s a stupid little token she acquired as a child during a family vacation to the beach. Rose had begged to use the machine, and she remembers Eames holding her up so she could see the levers work in tandem to crush the copper.

She clings to the memory like a life raft.

***

Max asks to go under, an offer than surprises the hell out of everyone.

“No, absolutely not,” Ravi growls.

“If he sees me, he’ll recognize me,” Max whispers, sounding so hopeful and heartbroken at the same time that Rose’s chest vicariously aches for him. She doesn’t want to be the one to explain to her little brother that, no, Eames won’t recognize any of them, not even Max.

“I’m making progress,” she lies, interrupting the squabbling mates. “I think he’s beginning to remember…”

She’s losing hope, but no one seems to notice except her uncle, who pulls her aside during one of her rare visits to the break room and states the unmentionable: “Eames is lost and you can’t help him.” She’s about to turn around and throw a very Jack-like insult his way — something along the lines of  _what’s your bright idea_? — but her uncle speaks first: “I think you should try Arthur.”

It’s such a beautifully simple solution she can’t speak for several moments.  _Of course_. 

Eames doesn’t remember, but Arthur might…

***

It’s a trickier plan to implement, primarily because the omega doesn’t leave the flat ritualistically like his mate. Rose has to wait until Eames is gone one day, then she sneaks up to their apartment and knocks on the door. When Arthur opens it, Rose’s mind temporarily goes blank because standing before her is an extremely young version of her father. Of course, she’d expected as much, but still it’s strange to see his youthful visage — Max’s twin — staring back at her.

“Oui?” he greets, logically assuming she’s French.

“Uh, hi!” she smiles, gesturing down the hallway. “I just moved in. I’m really sorry to inconvenience you, but my phone isn’t working yet. May I use yours?”

“Of course,” Arthur smiles, stepping aside so she can walk into the apartment. “You’re American?”

Rose walks inside, glancing around. Naturally, her fathers’ dream apartment reflects their eclectic tastes. She can determine item-by-item which is Arthur’s addition, and which ones are Eames’s. The modern appliances in the kitchen all belong to her omega father, whilst the bric-a-brac seemingly acquired from local flea markets must be Eames’s doing. “I am,” she says, following Arthur’s gesture towards the main room where there is a phone propped up on a side table. “From California,” she adds, glancing over her shoulder to see if the confession registers in a meaningful way.

It doesn’t. 

“I’m from New York, myself,” he says, which makes sense. Arthur won’t visit, or live, in California for many years. He sits in a antique-looking chair across from her and crosses his legs.

Rose smiles. “Really? Cool…” She picks up the receiver and glances around the apartment. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything important…”

“Oh no,” Arthur says, waving his hand casually. “Just waiting for my husband. He went to get some wine.”

She offers a polite, tight-lipped smile and is about to dial when her hand pauses above the keypad. It occurs to her, not for the first time, just how odd this is. She’s staring at her father as a young man, and quite honestly, he’s stunning. Her father has always been a handsome man, but he was beautiful in his youth with raven hair and smooth alabaster skin. She’s so busy looking at him, committing every single detail to memory, that she fails to notice he’s also scrutinizing her.

“Do I know you from somewhere?” he asks, his voice cutting through the haze.

“I don’t think so,” she answers immediately, dialing a fake number, and then smiling slightly as she counts in her head—one, two, three seconds— “Yes, hello,” she says to no one, “I’d like to schedule a delivery time for my things. Rose Parker,” she says, giving a fake name. “That’s right. Thank you.” She hangs up the phone, throat tightening when she sees Arthur is still staring back at her, something like vague suspicion and curiosity reflected in his gaze. 

When the front door opens, Rose leaps to her feet, heart hammering in her chest when Eames strolls into the living room, carrying a bottle of wine. “I’m back—“ he says, stopping mid-sentence, and in his tracks, when he lays eyes on Rose. For a terrible moment, she thinks the jig is up — that surely seeing her here, now, inside their apartment, everything will come rushing back too suddenly, completely overwhelming her fathers, and dropping them into limbo. “I know you…” Eames says suddenly, ostensibly confirming her worst fears, until a wide smile breaks across his face: “You’re the girl from the cafe.”

“Yeah!” she cries, immeasurably relieved. “You come in during the afternoons, right? Black tea?” she asks quickly, smiling in what she hopes looks like a surprised fashion. “I just moved in next door…”

Eames continues to nod and smile, but she can’t help but notice the familiar appraising look on her other father’s face. Arthur is most definitely sizing her up because he’s suspicious.

But before she can analyze it further, he smiles in a tight-lipped prim way and says: “Let us know if you need anything else.”

***

She awakes to chaos. 

Everyone is shouting, and as her gaze focuses, she notices Ravi desperately trying to keep Jack from attacking Uncle Dom. A few paces to the right, Selena has Max folded in her arms protectively as her brother cries in fear. She’s rubbing his back gently, wide, horrified eyes watching the men fight.

“You’re goddamn incompetent, Dom! This is your fault!” Jack shouts, practically frothing at the mouth. She shifts slightly on the chair and everyone instantly turns their attention to her. If she says the wrong thing, her brother is going to attack Uncle Dom. “Rose…” Jack sighs, hurrying towards her, his blood beef with the other alpha temporarily forgotten. When he’s close enough, he kneels and grips her hand gently. It’s nice — a warm, firm anchor. “How’s it going?”

“Fine,” she says. Rose can’t keep track of all the lies she’s been telling them. “I’m getting close.”

***

It’s easier to befriend Eames because this version of himself is open and trusting. It’s weird and lovely at the same time — to see her father swaggering about with his familiar gait, but minus the little handicaps of his real self. His right shoulder doesn’t suffer from occasional stiffness (Eames lied and told her it was an injury from boxing, but one night she plied Uncle Dom full of whisky and he blurted that her father was tortured years ago and still carries scars from the ordeal), and he doesn’t gaze at her with hard-earned wisdom and worldly savviness. Here, he’s willing to believe her intentions are pure.

Then there’s Arthur….

He knows something is amiss, and proceeds to carry himself around her like a wary cat — muscles tense, wired to spring into action at the slightest provocation. One time, she visits, and can tell they’ve just had a quarrel, most likely about her visits, judging by the rigid column of Arthur’s spine when he gets up and leaves them alone in the living room. Of course Arthur is suspicious of her — he knows she is the one trying to somehow change their lives, even though he doesn’t fully comprehend how or why.

Arthur is the dreamer, and she is the enemy of that dream.

“You’re very pretty,” he observes casually one day when she’s helping him dry dishes in the kitchen. “Which of your parents do you look like?”

Rose smiles, a little grimly. “My alpha father,” she says, taking a plate from him and polishing it with a towel.

“Are you attracted to Eames?” he asks, like they’re chatting about the weather.

Rose very nearly drops the plate, sending it crashing to the floor. “Uh, no,” she laughs. Arthur looks at her for a long, intense moment and then smiles slightly. She supposes it makes sense — his suspicion — and yet she finds it oddly endearing. The Arthur who raised her is not insecure, or fearful Eames will leave him for a young, pretty beta. Theirs is a rock solid bond — unshakeable and unbreakable. It’s strange to consider that their union is not as old as time itself — that indeed there was a period when Arthur was twenty, and so in love he felt sick at the very idea Eames might one day leave him. “He’s, like, totally in love with you,” she offers.

It’s apparently the right thing to say because Arthur’s eyes shine approvingly and he continues washing dishes.

But his suspicions are not fully assuaged. 

Whenever Rose mentions certain things, the picture frames on the walls will tremble slightly. Eames comments that it’s the métro, but Rose knows it’s Arthur regaining awareness. One day, she mentions a strange dream she had about being hooked up to a bizarre device in the shape of a briefcase, and a porcelain figurines flies off the shelf and shatters on the floor. It was a stupid, clumsy maneuver, and Rose remains frozen in place while Eames hurries to sweep up the shards, complaining idly about how the wind blusters in from the south windows. 

Of course, Rose knows it was not the wind, and when she looks up to find Arthur staring back at her with his dark, unblinking eyes, she realizes he knows it too.

He’s remembering.

***

The girl, Rose, leaves and Eames pulls him close the second the door shuts behind her, ignoring Arthur’s unserious objections when he guides them to the center of the living room and begins slow dancing them in languid circles to the tune of Édith Piaf playing the floor above. Arthur eventually wraps his arms around his neck and rests his dark ahead against Eames’s shoulder. “She’s trying to make us leave…” Arthur whispers sadly.

Eames frowns and kisses his soft waves. It’s nonsense, of course, but Arthur is occasionally a paranoid man. “Whatever do you mean?” he murmurs, right hand comfortingly stroking the base of the omega’s spine, just above his rear.

Arthur presses against him. “She’s meddling…but I don’t want to send her away,” he softly confesses, pressing his mouth to Eames’s neck in a tender kiss, but he can feel the omega frowning. “I like her…”

He hums thoughtfully, his other hand cradling the back of Arthur’s skull. “Me too.”

After a pregnant pause, Arthur adds: “I know her…”

“Yes…”

Eames kisses him as the frames rattle again.

***

It’s difficult to remember this is all a dream. Seemingly overnight (or maybe it really  _does_ happen over night), little personal tokens appear around her flat. There’s a miniature Eiffel Tower, and a photograph of her standing by the Seine, smiling and tan. She doesn’t remember posing for it, or who took it. Her wardrobe is full of clothing and the refrigerator is stocked with food, and Rose has no idea where it all comes from. She finds it hard to believe that Arthur could have provided the details, even though he’s the dreamer.

But then another possibility springs to mind: perhaps they’ve been together in the dream for so long that they’re collectively adding details. Maybe her father’s dream has become  _her_ dream.

Most worryingly, it seems as though the details of her existence in the dream flesh out even while Arthur slowly emerges from his stupor. New items appear every moment in her apartment, but the next time she visits her fathers’ flat, the furniture is gone and Eames is sitting on the floor, examining a photo album. He doesn’t hear her approach, and as she gazes over his shoulder, she sees photos solidifying from the ether in their little plastic flaps. There’s a photo of Max in the bath, and one of Rose soiled and scowling after Jack pushed her into the mud, and another of Uncle Dom with his arm slung around Arthur’s shoulders.

“I used to be jealous of them, you know,” he says suddenly.

Rose experiences such a tremendous rush of relief that she very nearly bursts out sobbing. Her father (one of her fathers, anyway) finally remembers where he is. At the very least, Eames will come back to them. She touches his shoulder gently and attempts to laugh. “Of Uncle Dom? He’s no match for you…”

Eames hums in agreement and she watches as another photo appears of the three of them — all the kids — posed on the couch. Max is approximately six, Rose is seven, which makes Jack eight-years-old. “I’m sorry we worried you, petal,” he says, reaching up to cover her hand with his own. “We just got a bit…lost.”

“I know. It’s okay,” she whispers, voice quivering only a little as her other hand strokes the back of his head. “But you have to come home now.”

Her father nods, glancing briefly at the window. “He’s outside.”

***

Arthur is standing by a fruit stand, holding an apple when she walks outside. Before she can speak, Arthur looks over at her and says, “You have to be careful. You can get lost very easily.”

 _Preaching to the choir_. Rose smirks and rolls her eyes. “Uh, yeah. I know. I’ve been trying to get you guys to remember for, like, forever.” It’s classic Arthur to turn this all around into a life lesson, like she’s the one who got lost in the dream. But at least it seems as though Arthur also realizes none of this is real. “We have totems to help us remember,” she adds, reaching in her pocket to grip the smashed penny.

“Totems don’t always work. You can lose them in the dream,” Arthur points out. Which, yeah, fair enough. She can’t remember the last time she saw her fathers holding their respective dice and poker chip. “But I don’t just mean the totems…You can lose yourself if you do this too long,” he adds.

Rose frowns, and suddenly the apple is gone, along with the fruit cart. In fact, when she looks up, the normally bustling street is empty. The sudden shift is a little disconcerting, until she remembers it probably means Arthur is pulling himself out of the dream. Despite their vanishing environment, Arthur’s dark gaze watches her closely, devoid of its previous youthful naiveté, and replaced by the familiar wisdom she’s accustomed to. “Uh, yeah. I mean, I know that. I know what I’m doing, dad…”

His smile is thin when he answers: “In my experience, the people who do this for a very long time are always running from something.”

***

Dom’s worried face is looming over him, which doesn’t make any sense until Arthur tries to sit up and something pulls at his arm. When he glances to the side, he sees an IV bag tethered to his arm. “Oh yeah. Here, let me,” Dom says, hurrying to slide out the needle and to disconnect him from the PASIV. Then he remembers: they were in a dream, for a long time — too long. They got lost. Eames is also awake, Max cradled in his arms as the poor young man sobs in what must be a mixture of fear and relief.

“How long?” Arthur rasps, his mouth and tongue like sandpaper. 

Dom sighs and slowly sits down on the chair’s edge. “In the dream? A few years…”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “Jesus…” he whispers, gaze meeting Eames’s. “You okay?”

The alpha nods, gently rubbing Max’s back. “I’m fine. Ducky, honestly…I’m fine.”

Arthur’s heart aches when Max leans back and he sees his son’s face streaked with tears. “Max”…” he whispers, only getting out the name before the other omega practically launches himself over to Arthur and they embrace fiercely. Their youngest cries against his shoulder, occasionally throwing in a very uncharacteristic curse word, or two. Max is angry — at Dom, and at them, and Arthur understands that anger. They mistakingly thought they could return to the dreamscape after so many years without consequence, but that clearly isn’t the case. “I’m sorry we scared you…”

“I hate that thing,” Max grumbles, and Arthur smirks, knowing he means the PASIV. It’s difficult for Max to understand the machine’s appeal because he isn’t a dream architect.

Eames suddenly stands up — too quickly, and nearly collapses until Ravi rushes forward at the last second and catches him. “Careful…” he instructs, but Eames tries to push past him, and for a second Arthur doesn’t understand why until he sees Dom sitting beside Rose, who is still unconscious.

“What is it?” Arthur asks, his voice taking on an edge because he can read Dominic Cobb like a book, and right now he looks panicked. 

“I’m not sure,” Dom says, touching her brow lightly. “She should have woken up…”

“Dom…” Arthur growls, aware that everyone in the room is now watching him warily. “I’m awake. I was the dreamer…If she’s not awake….”

The rest goes unsaid. If he’s awake and Rose is not, it means she’s fallen into limbo.

“I know,” the alpha responds quietly, just as the office door swings open and Jack and Selena walk in, arms cradling some fast food bags.

“Dad!” Jack shouts, upon seeing Arthur and Eames awake. His face is the picture of happiness for about ten seconds until he sees their alarmed expressions and he notices Rose is still under. “What happened?” he asks, smile vanished, eyes a mirror reflection of Eames’s intense gaze. 

“I’m going back under,” Arthur announces, before anyone else can say anything.

“Like hell you are,” Eames snaps. “We were just gone for days. Are you out of your bloody mind?”

“She’s our daughter,” the omega says, voice a growled warning. 

Dom stands up suddenly, rolling the sleeve of his shirt. “I’ll go.”

“No!” Arthur cries, entirely losing his cool, recalling the last time Cobb fell into limbo. All he can think of is his friend and Mal being lost together, and then Mal jumping. He doesn’t remember standing, but suddenly Max is beside him, arm looped around his waist to hold him up. “You’re not going,” he says, expecting that to be the end of the conversation.

They’re on the precipice of a full-blown, knock-down, drag-out fight, one like they haven’t had since the heyday of dreamshare when they were a new, volatile team, and he and Eames had not yet come to terms with their unresolved sexual tension. And it’s perhaps because the room practically crackles with that dangerous energy that Jack suddenly speaks: “I’ll do it.”

Everyone looks at the alpha, but no one shoots down the idea immediately. After all, rationally speaking, it’s the best shot they have. Arthur and Eames are too fresh from the last dream, and Dom is out of the question. The next most-experienced dreamer is Jack. Yet, he’s still Arthur and Eames’s child, and Max’s big brother.

The omega is the first one to respond. “No…” he says, frowning. “No one should go under. We should wait.”

“Ducky…” Eames sighs. “She won’t wake up. One of us has to fetch her.”

It’s the truth, and they all know it. They can wait all they want in reality, but Rose is never going to wake up unless one of them does the unthinkable: willingly enter limbo. Jack interprets their silence as acquiescence and nods, stepping forward as he rolls up his sleeve. “Tell me what to expect,” he says, already switching to full business mode.

Arthur and Eames stare at him for a long, hard moment, perhaps trying to decide if they’re going to challenge his decision, but the reality is that this is their only option to get Rose back, and they have to be quick about it, before the beta falls too deep.

Eames takes a shaky step forward. “It will be fragments of memories—her memories. She may recognize you…”

“Or she may not…” Dom interjects.

“She’s confused…and scared,” Arthur adds, cursing himself when his voice wavers. He bows his head, unable to continue. He doesn’t want to imagine his daughter in limbo. Max gently rubs his back.

Jack deliberately doesn’t look at him when he loses his composure. The alpha has never been able to handle Arthur crying very well. Instead, he lays down in a chair beside Rose and extends his bare arm to Selena, who cradles his forearm for a moment before she whispers: “You’re sure?”

“I’ll be back in two minutes,” he responds, emitting profound confidence, even throwing in a wink.

Arthur immediately recognizes that for what it is — a lie, the same one Eames told him before every job. He remembers Prague, when Eames got shot, and ended up comforting Arthur, saying he would make it even when he couldn’t have possibly been sure that was the case.

“Jack…” Arthur whispers.

But the alpha simply smiles. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”

“You have to remember…it’s a dream,” Eames emphasizes.

It’s the last thing anyone says to him before Selena inserts the needle, and after one last, lingering look at his face, pushes the orange button.

***

Jack is standing in the living room of their childhood house and Max is on the floor, playing at his feet. Except, Max can’t be older than five-years-old, staring at him with wide, curious eyes.

“Hey…” Jack says, two seconds before a miniature version of Rose races into the room, giggling and clutching Jack’s old toy Tyrannosaurus Rex. He stares in shock as his child self races after her, shouting bloody murder because his sister knows that’s his favorite toy, and yet she insists on testing him. The whole while, Max watches his older siblings warily, knowing a fight is percolating in the not-too-distance future.

“Oi!” a young Eames cries, stalking into the room, hands on hips in an exaggerated parental stance. The three of them freeze, knowing they’re busted, staring sheepishly at him. “What’s the commotion?”

“Rose took Dougie!” Jack accuses, and as he observes the scene, he smirks — recalling that, yes, he did indeed name a dinosaur  _Dougie._

“Petal, is that true?” Eames asks, even though it’s totally obvious it is because she’s hugging the T-Rex to her chest.

She pouts, bottom lip jutting way out, but there’s a darkness in her gaze. She’s  _angry_. Maybe this is Rose’s first memory of being angry, and then Jack wonders why this moment is significant. 

Before he can analyze it, he suddenly finds himself in Rose’s old room, exactly as it used to look, complete with band posters and frilly girly possessions. She’s a little older, maybe twelve in this memory, and seated on the bed while an angry Arthur paces in front of her. “This is the third time this week, Rose.”

“Jack never gets in trouble for cutting curfew…” she sulks, arms crossed sullenly.

“Yes he does. He just doesn’t care,” Arthur sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Whatever. You’re harder on me because he’s an alpha, and alphas get to do whatever they want…” she grouses.

Arthur looks a bit out of his depths, but as per usual, manages to emit a general air of professionalism even under fire: “Alphas most certainly do _not_ get to do whatever they want—“

“Yes they do!” Rose erupts, so suddenly that the outburst stuns Arthur into silence. “That’s always how it goes! Jack does whatever he wants and Max is your precious omega, and I’m nothing!”

Arthur stares down at her, his expression a mixture of horror and sadness, and Jack wonders if his father looked at him the same way during his tirades. He has memories of Arthur as a tyrant, an overly-strict dictator hellbent on squashing their good fun. But now that he’s older, he can see how scared and sad his father actually was — a young, inexperienced parent doing his best as life continually threw him curveball after curveball. 

“You’re not nothing. I love you…”

***

He chases his sister through limbo — witnessing these fragmented memories, and after a while, he begins to notice a theme. Rose is searching for something — perhaps meaning, a place in the world. Betas are expected to accommodate everyone else, and Rose is brilliant at it, but no one ever laid out a clear plan for her beyond that. And his sister is most certainly not the type of woman to live a life as a servant. She’s a brilliant, strong-willed person, and unwilling to play second fiddle to alphas and omegas.

Her projection of Peter is the first person to acknowledge him. His old friend looks as though he’s seventeen, seated on the living room couch, when he glances over his shoulder and says: “Hey.”

“Um…hi,” Jack responds, cautiously wandering into the living room. 

“You wanna go see a movie or something?” the other alpha asks, but he keeps glancing back at the hallway, just as he used to whenever he visited — searching for Rose.

He smiles slightly. “She’s out.”

Peter visibly deflates. “Oh…” he shakes his head. “Not like it matters. She doesn’t even know I exist.”

“I beg to differ,” Jack smirks.

Peter slumps back onto the couch, arm cradled behind his head. “I’m serious, man. The other day, she went on this whole lecture about how the world caters to alphas and omegas, and alphas and omegas are destined for each other, but she never wants to be paired off like that, and…” he trails off, sighing. “She hates alphas, I think.”

***

They’re sitting on the beach, and Jack thinks his role is to watch until Rose gently nudges him with her shoulder. “Do you think it’s fair for a beta to date an alpha?”

There’s a blanket beneath them, but Jack can still feel the warm sand, baked by the hot sun. He squints thoughtfully. “What do you mean fair?”

Rose shrugs, reaching down to pool a heap of sand in her fist and then release it through her spread fingers. “I mean, if the beta could only birth other betas, and society would…I don’t know,  _judge_ , them…Is it fair for the beta to let the alpha fall in love with her?”

Jack remembers this moment. The whole family went to the beach, and this was the end of the trip, when he was feeling dried out from the sun, and the salt from the ocean. He was also cranky because his stomach was growling, and he answered: “I know who you’re asking about…” And he meant it in a teasing way, but Rose took it seriously, frowned, got up, and stormed back to the water as he called: “Rose! I’m kidding.  _Rose_ …”

She wades into the ocean and doesn’t surface again.

***

He doesn’t know how long they play this cat and mouse game, but he finds his sister a thousand different places, at almost every year of her life up until the present day. Most of the time, his sister is a laughing, glowing presence — all light and air, and he smiles watching her play with Max, and cracking up with Arthur and Eames. However, sometimes he finds her in quiet isolation, or debating her place in the universe, and he’s surprised because Rose never struck him as a philosopher.

For Jack, his role has always been crystal clear. He is an alpha — an aggressor and protector, and he imagines it must be similar for Max. Omegas, from their earliest days, know they are meant to carry alphas’ children. But for betas…meaning can be elusive.

He decides things have gone far enough when they return to the beach again, but this time Rose is elderly. Jack almost doesn’t recognize her for a moment, but at the last second he sees she’s wearing her favorite silk scarf. She doesn’t seem remotely surprised to see him when he sits down beside her.

“Don’t you think you’re taking this a bit far? Everyone is worried about you…” he sighs.

“Leave me alone,” Rose softly responds.

He grows silent, staring off at the horizon where the sun is red and low in the sky. It’ll be night soon. “Fuck them…” She looks at him, and those her face is pallid and wrinkled, it is most definitely Rose’s eyes staring curiously at him. “If you want to be with an alpha, and he wants to be with you, who cares what they think?”

“That’s easy for you to say…” she sighs. “Max has Ravi, and Arthur has Eames, and you have Selena. You’re all perfect.”

Jack smirks. “I’m not perfect.”

And even though she has to be about eighty, Rose rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. You’re all made for each other.”

He’s quiet for a moment, reclining back onto his elbows so he can watch the waves for a while. It’s nice here — meditative and serene. He can understand how a person could lose track of time here, grow old in the midst of profound contemplation. “I was confused for a long time…you know that,” he says, glancing to his sister. “And I almost missed Selena because of that, but I got my shit together, and I think we might have a chance now. I don’t want you to make the same mistake, Rose. If you want something, you should go for it.”

Rose shakes her head. “It’s different for betas. Everyone will expect me to obey him, and you know that’s never been me.”

“So then change the rules,” Jack smirks. “I can’t believe I have to tell you this. You’re the one who told me there aren’t rules — just scared people too afraid to break the mold.” When she doesn’t respond right away, he adds: “Does it look like Arthur  _obeys_  Eames?”

She stares at him for a long time before a slow grin breaks out across her face. “You’re smart, you know that? I see why they sent you.”

He chuckles as he climbs to his feet and extends a hand. “Had to come get my partner in crime, right?”

***

Everyone is huddled around Rose’s chair by the time he wakes up, and in the center he sees Arthur and Eames enfolding his sister in a hug. She’s laughing in her usual self-deprecating way, as though she hadn’t just been in very severe danger. “Aww, Maxie!” she cries, hugging him next, and poor Max dissolves into tears once more. “Really, it was fine. Jack had everything under control.”

Which is a lie. No one is in control while in limbo, and it was up to Rose to leave.

Selena gently removes the line from his arm and gazes intensely at his face. “You’re okay?” she asks softly, fingertips caressing his arm in a way that could be confused for medical attention.

He smiles, briefly catching his sister’s gaze from across the room.

“We’re fine.”


	58. More Frengie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More on Frank/Bengie, featuring an appearance from Arthur and Eames

As it turns out, Bengie didn’t just forget his glasses. He forgot a while bunch of stuff: allergy medication, clothes, the precious few tokens he has from his childhood. “There’s a photo of me as a baby…It’s the only one I have,” he explains to Frank, which is the saddest fucking thing he’s ever heard, so of course he drives over to Bengie’s old house, the one he and Assface used to share. He parks just down the block and watches for a while, making sure there aren’t any cops monitoring the house.

There were only a couple missing person reports on the news about Sean Hines before the authorities apparently accepted that he has moved on, or committed suicide, something beyond their judicial reach. They never found evidence of foul play because he and Eamesie had been very, very careful. Professional-like. 

Frank gets out of the car, walks around the back of the house, and breaks a window so he can get inside. They he locates garbage bags under the kitchen sink and begins throwing Bengie’s items into them. There aren’t any photos of the former couple displayed anywhere in the house, and a permanent frown hangs on his lips when he enters the bedroom and a foul mix of pheromones slams into him — Bengie’s normal, lovely scent muffled by the intrusion of a pungent-smelling alpha. 

He hates the idea of Bengie sleeping in the same bed as that poor excuse of an alpha.

But Assface is six feet under now, so good riddance.

He carries the three garbage bags back to the car, throws them into the trunk, and drives back to their apartment where Bengie is anxiously waiting for him in the living room. “It’s okay?” he asks right away, gazing nervously at him as if waiting for his former mate to charge inside, chasing Frank.

“Yeah, all good. Looks like he’s moving. There’s a for sale sign on the front lawn,” Frank lies. He was always quick to change the TV channel whenever Bengie walked into the room, so the omega never saw the missing person reports. 

“Oh…” Bengie responds, sounding perhaps a little sad, but in the obligatory way of kind people—not like he feels agony in his bones, or anything. His bond with the dead alpha is broken. He rummages through the garbage bags, making occasional pleased noises that cause Frank to grin triumphantly. “Thank you  _so much_ ,” he gasps when he finds the old photograph. It’s of a small boy, undersized for his age, sitting on a curb. He’s frowning and straining to hold his head upright under a thick mop of hair. “This was me,” Bengie says superfluously, smiling as he shows Frank the photograph.

“Cute..” Frank answers, grinning when the compliment seems to make the kid happy. 

They unpack the bags and add Bengie’s clothing to Frank’s wardrobe so half the closet is his stuff and the other half belongs to the omega. His living space has slowly become domesticated since Bengie’s arrival, and Frank has noticed the little niceties: actual silverware, a fully stocked refrigerator, and a pristine bathroom. It’s nice to no longer feel like he’s living in a cheap motel, but the transformation has also simultaneously provided him with periodic panic attacks when he realizes Bengie is demonstrating classic nesting behavior. Basically, he’s acting like they’re mates.

But they are most definitely  _not mates_ , and they never can be, mostly because he’s old enough to be Bengie’s father and Arthur will serve up his nuts on a platter if he so much as has a wet dream about the kid.

He tries to plant the idea of independence in Bengie’s head, hoping to hint that their living arrangement isn’t permanent. As they unpack his things, he casually asks: “So…are you thinking of enrolling in school?”

Bengie frowns as he folds his shirts on the mattress. “Well, no…I’ve never gone to school.” When Frank looks at him in surprise, he quickly mumbles: “I mean, I can read…” 

He’s clearly self-conscious, and Frank doesn’t want to embarrass him over something that’s not his fault (namely, that he’s been a prisoner in his own home for decades), so he drops the subject entirely. 

“Whatever you want, my prince,” he says, which is stupid and too familiar, but when Bengie blushes and smiles slightly, pleased to his very core, Frank can’t summon an ounce of regret.

Though neither of them breach the subject again, and as a result, nothing gets solved or planned. They keep living together, Bengie keeps preparing him wonderful meals, and they live day-by-day, dancing around the elephant in the room.

***

Frank is the most handsome, smartest alpha in the world.

Sometimes, Bengie will be prepping for dinner — peeling potatoes, or mixing the salad — and Frank will watch game shows in the living room. He mostly always knows the answers to the questions, and sometimes Bengie comments on it (“Wow, you know a lot about geography,”) and Frank smiles in a happy way that makes Bengie feel good because he knows he’s pleased Frank, which is really the least he can do since the alpha has been so kind to him.

He thinks that, maybe if he shows he’s capable of being a good mate, Frank will let him stay forever. The idea of school is not appealing to him. Bengie hates meeting new people, and he likes staying at home and working on making the apartment a nice home. Briefly, he wonders if Frank is trying to get rid of him, but then the alpha drops the subject, and he thinks, no, that can’t be the case. Frank seems to like having him around, especially during dinner time when he crows compliments about Bengie’s cooking that leave him smiling for a long time.

He wonders when they’re going to mate. So far, Frank hasn’t kissed him, or even touched him, which Bengie finds strange because he’s used to the alpha (in his case, Sean,) forcing him to do things. It wasn’t pleasant, his whole life, and indeed Bengie hated his relationship with Sean, but at least the rules were clear. Sean demanded things of him, and Bengie didn’t refuse because refusing Sean always ended in pain. But it’s different with Frank, and he’s beginning to wonder if Frank wants  _him_  to make the first move, but the thought (and the subsequent nightmarish possibility of rejection) terrify him. 

Instead, he does nothing, and Frank does nothing.

One time, Frank calls him  _my prince_ and he floats on cloud nine for days afterwards, but neither of them explore what it all means.

They wait.

***

He’s gotten spoiled lately because most of the time he wakes up on the couch to the smell of pancakes and fresh coffee, but one morning he awakes to a dark kitchen. Bengie isn’t up and bustling about yet, which is strange because the omega always wakes up before him. He walks to the closed bedroom door and knocks softly, then a little louder. Ordinarily, the kid is a light sleeper, but today he doesn’t utter a peep, so Frank begins to worry. He turns the doorknob to see if Bengie has locked it, but it opens, and he takes half a step forward before the unmistakable scent of the omega washes over him like a tsunami.

Bengie is in heat.  _Of course_ he’s in heat. Frank shuts the door quickly and rests his stupid forehead protecting his stupid brain against it. He thought to look for everything at Bengie’s old house except his suppressants, if the kid even  _had_ suppressants to begin with. Knowing an assface like Sean, the alpha probably never had him on birth control at all. His fingers ball into fists at his sides and a frustrated groan pours past his clenched teeth. He only got a fleeting whiff, but he already can tell Bengie smells exquisite — more so than usual. Every muscle twitches in anticipation, attempting to coax him into moving — to turn the doorknob, walk inside, and claim the omega.

“Frank…” Bengie’s muffled voice wafts through the cheap, flimsy barricade. Frank could put his fist through it like soft butter.

“Fuck…” he growls, using every ounce of energy and mental power to focus on walking backwards, away from the door, back-stepping all the way to the kitchen so he can find his cell phone and call Arthur. This isn’t fair. None of this is fucking fair, he thinks as he dials angrily and spits as soon as Arthur answers: “The kid is in heat. Do you have any…pills?” he asks, unable at that moment to think of the word  _suppressants_. It’s incredibly difficult to think right now, or accomplish anything with his finer motor skills.

“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Don’t move,” Arthur, the little robot, replies. Frank focuses on those words, and the icy promise running beneath them, a deadly little undercurrent in the figure of a lithe omega. Arthur and Eames had been on vacation, destination undisclosed, because no one tells him anything, and he and Bengie were stuck watching the kids all weekend. Since he’s been back, Arthur hasn’t said two words to him, and in their first interaction since he and Eamesie got back from Bermuda, or wherever, he spits a direct order at him.

That’s their arrangement: Arthur tells him what to do, he does it, babysits, or whatever, and no one thanks him.

It’s ridiculous.

He sits resentfully in the living room, fingers gripping his knees, jaw locked painfully, as he stares at the wall and waits. Poor Bengie’s wails grow louder until he’s begging for Frank to come help him, and  _help him_  in this case can mean only one thing.  _I want to_ , he thinks. He knows rutting with Bengie will be lovely, and feel divine, and might very well make them both extremely happy, but he’s not allowed to.

Arthur doesn’t knock. He just uses his spare key to walk right into the apartment because he’s always allowed to go wherever he wants, whereas Frank has very specific orders about territories he can, and cannot, visit. He blinks slowly and stares at the omega for several moments before he realizes Arthur is talking to him: “Go…Leave right now. Drive to my house and wait with Eames until I call you.”

He wants to climb off the couch, cross the room in three strides, grip Arthur by his pretty neck and pin him against the wall, just so he remembers who’s the alpha here. He could do it — the adrenaline is already surging in his veins from the brief interaction with a beautiful, willing omega. Arthur is crafty — spry and quick, but Frank is strong and could overpower him. People forget sometimes that he’s a criminal, an alpha animal capable of tearing the flesh from its bones with his teeth. It’s easy to look at Frank, and laugh, forgetting what lives in his heart.

But there’s something that also lives inside him — a thin, but insistent barrier that stops him from acting on these impulses. He stands, crosses the room, but then pauses in front of Arthur, breathing deeply. The omega watches him with attentive, dark eyes, then says: “I’ll take care of Bengie. Thanks for watching the babies this weekend.” An outsider would assume Arthur is being polite, but Frank knows better. He’s making a strategic decision by mentioning Bengie and the babies — little reminders to bring his brain back online. He pictures Bengie’s face, and then the twins and baby Taj, followed by Max, Arthur’s son. Frank sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Fuck.”

“Better?” Arthur asks lightly.

“Kind of…” he mumbles, grabbing the car keys off the counter.

***

Unlike his terrible mate, Eamesie is a sweetheart and invites him out onto the patio so they can smoke a cigarette together. It’s raining lightly, and they huddle together under an awning, passing the smoke back and forth, Eames occasionally rubbing thoughtfully at his beard.

“How are things with Bengie?” he eventually asks.

“Fine,” he answers reflexively, tapping the cigarette lightly to shake a bit of ash from the tip. He doesn’t want to talk about Bengie, particularly with parties who don’t really understand their dynamic. Most people probably think the worst of Frank — that he’s behaving like a lecherous old man, but nothing could be further from the truth. “Just in heat, is all…”

Eames nods, humming thoughtfully as he sucks down a drag and exhales the smoke through his nose. “I ever tell you that’s the first time I was with Arthur? Walked in on him when he was already in heat…”

Frank blinks slowly. He’s always imagined Arthur made Eames ride in on a white stallion carrying two armfuls of red roses before the omega removed his tie…on their eighteenth date. “Uh….” he answers, brain short-circuiting.

“Takes a lot of self-restraint to leave when an omega is in heat,” Eames continues, voice carrying what sounds like a hefty amount of admiration.

He puffs up his chest a little, smiling crookedly. “Thanks, brother.”

It’s nice someone recognizes he’s a goddamn hero here.

***

Frank stays with Eames a few days, even though he doesn’t have clothes or toiletries. They make do, Frank borrowing clothes, and Eames locating a spare toothbrush for him. Mostly, they watch a lot of bad action movies and Eames cooks his absurdly lavish meals that Frank consumes enthusiastically. Eventually, Arthur calls and gives the all clear, so he drives back to his apartment.

Arthur is waiting outside for him in the parking lot.

“It was bad…” he says right away, never one to sugarcoat the truth. “He’s never gone through a heat without…attention,” he adds, clumsily fishing for the euphemism for  _firm fucking_. “I gave him suppressants, but he’ll need to find a doctor nearby and go for regular checkups, and to get refills.” Frank nods, but apparently his response isn’t adequate because Arthur levels a long, hard stare at him. “Don’t let that happen again. It’s difficult for alphas to show…self-restraint.”

Frank stares at him. “You think I did that on purpose?”

Arthur shifts his weight to the other foot. “I’m just making my point clearly—“

“You don’t know everything, Arthur,” he spits, walking past him, ignoring when the omega calls his name.

When he’s upstairs, Frank walks straight to the bedroom where Bengie is curled up under the covers, pale, but alert in the eyes. “Hey…” he greets softly as Frank sits on the edge of the mattress and touches his forehead. 

“You okay?” he asks, feeling calm for the first time in days.

“Yeah…” the omega sighs, flashing a weak smile. “I just feel dumb. I’m sorry…I didn’t think—“

“It’s fine,” Frank says immediately. Bengie is the last person in the world he could be mad at right now. “Now we know, right?”

Bengie smiles softly. “Right.”

***

Frank is never going to touch him, and that reality confuses him. Part of Bengie feels relieved that the alpha doesn’t expect sex from him because he’s not sure he can ever do that again. Rutting with Sean hurt, and he always dreaded it, so it’s good to know he no longer has that obligation, but another piece of him thinks maybe it would be different with Frank — perhaps even feel good. Knowing Frank doesn’t want him also hurts a little, and he begins to obsessively itemize what might be wrong with him to lead to this kind of rejection. It’s probably that he’s too skinny…or too tall (he’s Frank’s height, but alphas usually prefer to be taller than their mates). 

Maybe if he was a slick dresser like Arthur…

He compares himself to Arthur a lot because he knows Frank has a crush on the other omega, which is depressing because it quickly becomes clear that Bengie will never, ever (in a million years) be like Arthur. He’s not smooth, or confident, or alluring in the same way. He isn’t brilliant or worldly.

All he has to offer is the fact that he wants Frank.

He knows it isn’t enough, and that reality saddens him, but he tries to carry on semi-normally. Bengie cleans and they eat meals together, and all the while this thing — the unnameable force — crackles between them, and they never discuss it. He lays awake for hours at night, pondering if Frank can’t sleep either, and he wonders why it has to be this way for them — what crime they might have committed in their past lives to now live in this kind of deprived limbo. 

It’s not fair.

He’s washing peas in a colander one night when Frank squeezes past him to get a beer from the refrigerator with a mumbled “excuse me, my prince,” and Bengie doesn’t really know what happens next, but somehow he ends up pressing against Frank as the man turns around, and kissing him square on the lips.

Frank pulls back instantly with a distressed, “Woah!” Both his hands are held up, fingers extended on one hand, the others wrapped around the bottle, as though Bengie is mugging him for his wallet. He looks totally freaked out. “Bengie…uh…hold on a second.”

He flushes instantly and backs away, head bowed as he mumbles: “Sorry…I thought—“ He’s not sure how to finish that statement. He thought…what? He thought maybe they could be mates, and happy. Saying it out loud feels painfully naive and stupid, though. Frank doesn’t want him, that much is extremely clear, and he knows it, yet he just threw himself at the man. “But you don’t….I get it,” he mumbles, stringing together fragments until Frank (mercifully) speaks.

“Bengie…we can’t…” Frank says softly, which isn’t the acidic rebuke he was expecting. He peeks up at the alpha, unable to thwart the hopeful look in his eyes.  _Can’t_ doesn’t mean Frank doesn’t  _want_ to. “I’m…” he starts, searching for the right words, “Well, too old, for a start.”

He can’t help the relieved smile that breaks out across his face.  _Oh_. If that’s Frank’s first line of defense, then this is all just a silly misunderstanding. “You’re not too old…”

The alpha swallows thickly and continues: “And I just can’t, okay? I’d be a pervert if I took advantage of you.”

He blinks and furrows his brow. “You’re not taking advantage of me—“

But the conversation is apparently over because Frank declares, “We’re done talking about this!”, squirms his way out from Bengie, and walks into the living room where he hides until dinner is ready.

***

They eat dinner silently, which is a crime because Bengie has prepared a wonderful meal, and Frank wants to be singing its praises. But he can’t because he’s afraid to say  _anything_ since it’d be absurd to talk about anything other than the fact that the kid just kissed him, and Frank can’t mention that because then Bengie will ask more  _whys:_ why can’t they be together? Why doesn’t Frank want him? And he doesn’t have the answers because all his defenses sound absurd once he’s said them out loud, and he  _does_ want Bengie — more than he can bear.

Instead, the clatter of their silverware on the plates fills the kitchen until Bengie softly declares: “You’re not too old.”

“Bengie…” Frank sighs, setting down fork and knife beside the luscious pork chop. “I’m old enough to be your father, understand? You’re Max’s age, and I’m Eames’s age. It’s wrong.”

“But you’re not my dad,” he astutely points out. “And we’re a good match.”

Frank laughs — loud and humorless — because this whole conversation is absurd. “We’re good at living together. We can keep doing that, you know. You don’t have to sleep with me to live here.”

Bengie frowns. “I know that. I want to sleep with you because I want you…”

He chokes, and has to drink quite a bit of water before he can speak again. “You should be with someone your own age…” Frank pants, punctuating the sentence with several more gulps.

“Why?” Bengie asks, his food rapidly cooling, forgotten, on the plate in front of him.

“ _Because_ ,” Frank growls, now frustrated and feeling wildly out of his depths, “You want a family, don’t you? Babies? I’m too old for that…”

“No you’re not. Alphas have kids well into their sixties, and I can’t have babies, remember?” Bengie mumbles, gazing down at his lap, which… _fuck_ …right, Frank forgot about that, and now he feels like an asshole. That’s always been a sore spot for the kid, who clearly adores children, but has had difficulty birthing ones of his own.

“I’m not discussing this,” Frank says, standing up quickly, the chair’s feet screeching loudly on the linoleum floor. “This? It isn’t happening…” he says, storming into the living room to turn on the TV and crank up the volume.

***

They don’t speak for a while after that. Bengie cooks and they eat in silence, Frank disappears for a few hours each day to help with the kids, and when he returns the apartment is spotless because Bengie runs a tight ship at home —  _their home_. But that kind of thinking is dangerous, so Frank usually grabs a beer and hurries into the living room before Bengie can level those doe eyes at him.

One night, he’s just settled into his favorite seat: the la-z-boy recliner, when Bengie walks into the living room, fully dressed in nice, pressed slacks and collared shirt, and announces: “I’m going out.”

As if that’s a remotely normal thing for him to say.

Frank immediately mutes the TV and stares at him: “What?”

The kid shrugs casually, but he detects a bit of hostility in the angle of his shoulders. “I’m going out. Like you said, I’m not a prisoner here, and we’re just roommates, or whatever, so…I’m going out.”

He feels like he’s going insane as he slowly blinks and says: “You don’t have any money.”

“I have some cash,” Bengie answers lightly, fetching a jacket from the coat racket. “And I’m sure someone will buy me a drink.”

Which is just a low dig, isn’t it? Frank climbs off the chair and follows him to the front door. “You’re doing this to get a rise out of me, aren’t you?”

“No,” Bengie answers, zipping the front of his jacket and turning to face him. “I’ll be back by ten,” he says, and then opens the front door, slipping out.

Frank stands there like an idiot in his boxers and t-shirt for several moments until he processes what’s actually happening, then he runs around, grabbing pants, his wallet, keys, and sprints down to the parking lot to climb into his car. He’s sure, absolutely  _positive_ , the kid is bluffing, but he follows him to the bus stop anyway, and parks about a block away, none-too-subtly watching Bengie as he sits in the shelter until the bus rolls up. Whereupon he  _actually gets on the bus_. 

“You fucking….little piss ant…I can’t….goddamnit,” he growls, creeping along as he follows the bus all the way downtown until they’re nearby a college campus, which is when Bengie gets off in the midst of the booze district. Frank sees the unmistakeable mop of hair alight from the bus and walk into the first bar he passes, which is where he parks and waits, teeth set on edge.

He can’t help but imagine all of the terrible things a younger version of himself would do upon seeing an omega like Bengie. He’s worried the kid will drink too much — that an unsavory type might take advantage of him, and it will all be Frank’s fault for denying them something good and healthy. He could be a great mate for Bengie, despite what Arthur thinks. He could be a good man, but he didn’t want to give himself the opportunity. People might be cruel, and laugh at them, but so what? There are always mateless losers lingering about to point and mock, but he’d have Bengie, and that’s all that matters.

Ten minutes turns into twenty minutes and Frank slumps in his seat, a deep depression washing over him. Bengie met someone — some young buck who isn’t a gambling-addicted pervert. The kid is going to run off with a blond descendent of Swedes, with perfect teeth and a 4.0 GPA. He’s just about to turn the keys in the ignition and slink off back home when Bengie emerges from the bar and walks straight over to his car.

He’s frozen in horror, right up until the moment the kid bends over to look into the passenger window and taps on the glass. Then he manages to move and unlock the door so the omega can climb inside beside him.

“Were you here the whole time?” he asks. Frank can only nod in response, and Bengie sighs. “Why did you follow me?”

“I wanted to make sure you’re okay…” he answers lamely, fingers gripping the wheel tightly. “What happened in there?”

Bengie shrugs, adjusting his glasses so they perch a little higher on his nose. “Some guy bought me a drink and we talked. I didn’t like him, though.”

Frank slowly relinquishes his grip on the wheel following an enormous rush of relief. “Oh…” he says, feeling foolish about everything — his reaction, but also letting Bengie go.

The kid watches him closely for several moments before he speaks next: “Can we make a deal?”

Life has taught him to approach an offer without details cautiously, but at this point he’s willing to agree to anything if it means they can rewind the last few days. “Sure,” he answers quietly.

Bengie nods. “You stop saying you’re too old, and I’ll stop having expectations. We don’t have to rush into anything, but I want you, and I know you want me…” The confidence in his voice flakes away when he adds: “Don’t you?”

The protective casing around Frank’s heart splits when he hears the doubt in the omega’s voice. “Yeah, Bengie. I do.” 

“We deserve to be happy, right?”

Frank reaches for him and gently grips the back of his neck, dragging him forward so he can answer him, and shut him up. He never, ever wants to hear that fear and pain in Bengie’s voice again, nor does he want to be the source of his doubt. The kiss is different because Frank is the one directing it, so he gets to make it tender and unhurried, and it’s apparently the right move because Bengie whimpers into his mouth. He cups his face, thumbs stroking his cheekbones when they separate a couple inches.

“I thought I was bad for wanting you…” he admits quietly. “Are you sure about me? I’m no good…”

Bengie is beautiful when he smiles: “You’re perfect.”


	59. The Eddie incident

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James walks in on Eddie when he's in the buff

It’s scorching outside, one of those blisteringly hot days that attracts everyone to their house like bees to pollen. Sure, Arthur and Eames have a pool, but Max and Ravi’s is bigger, plus they have all the cool floating toys with which the kids love to play. So it’s no surprise when first his fathers appear, feigning a casual visit, though it’s obvious why they’re really dropping by when Arthur keeps casting hungry looks into the backyard and “innocently” inquiring about the condition of the pool.

“Has it been cleaned recently?” he asks, face practically pressed to the glass.

Max is plating orange slices at the counter and looks up, smirking: “Yesterday. Do you want to go for a swim?”

Arthur frowns thoughtfully, as if considering the offer. “I mean, sure. If you’re going out anyway.”

Meanwhile, Eames is excited to check out Ravi’s pride and joy, his brand-new grill (it’s an alpha thing) as Max and Arthur splash around the pool with the kids. The twins are old enough now to don their orange floaties and frantically doggy paddle around the shallow end. It’s chaotic, and Aady manages to splash waves all over the place, but Arthur can’t stop smiling watching his grandchildren swim, so it’s all worthwhile. Max holds Taj as he sits on the steps, occasionally dipping the baby into the water. Babies are natural swimmers and instinctively know when to hold their breath from their time in the womb, and Taj squeals with laughter any time he gets water on his face. 

“How’s my little man?” Ravi asks from behind the grill, grinning when Max holds up their youngest so Taj can see him and giggle on queue.

“He loves it,” Max confirms, kissing the top of the baby’s thick mop of hair.

“He has sunscreen on?” the alpha asks, lighting the base of the grill.

“Yup, the one hundred-plus SPF stuff,” Max says, grinning when Taj reaches for his face. He doesn’t mess around when it comes to protecting his babies from the sun’s rays.

It’s not long before Eddie and Pat, who is carrying Abby, descend upon the house as well, but at least Pat has the common curtesy to bring a couple trays of his delicious little cucumber sandwiches and a pitcher of lemonade based on an old family recipe. Eddie is holding both trays and the pitcher when Max opens the front door to greet them. 

“I thought cucumber sandwiches would be nice,” Pat chirps, smiling brightly. “It’s so hot out! These will be nice and refreshing, don’t you think, Eddie?”

“Yes, poppet,” the man replies, nodding to the items he’s carrying. “Shall I set these in the kitchen?”

“Oh sure,” Max says, smiling and waving at little Abby, who is dressed in an adorable pink bonnet to protect her pale skin. She watches him with wide eyes, full lips upturned in a smile. “Everyone is out back, so feel free to jump in the pool.”

“Lord, I will,” Pat sighs, in full southern belle mode. “I cannot believe this heat! It’s humid, you know? Not a dry heat. I sweat just opening my eyes in the morning. Abby, we’re going in the pool! Won’t that be fun, my love?”

The sounds of Pat’s cheerful greetings to everyone are slightly muffled by the sliding glass door as Max and Eddie set up the snacks on the kitchen table. “I got it,” Max says, flashing a smile at Eddie. “You go say hi to everyone.”

“Eames and Ravi are out back?” he asks, voice hopeful, to the point where Max has to stop himself from smirking. Eddie gets overwhelmed if there’s too many omegas surrounding him, particularly Arthur, who completely flusters and mystifies the poor man. 

“Yeah, by the grill, being manly men,” he answers wryly.

***

It turns out to be a big reunion when Uncle Dom and the cousins visit at the behest of Arthur, even though Max is still a little miffed at his uncle after the botched dream session that nearly dropped his fathers, and sister, into limbo permanently. But Arthur insists it was no one’s fault — that indeed it was an accident — so Max eventually acquiesces, and Uncle Dom even brings a gift, Max’s favorite tea, as a peace-offering. James and Phillipa enter behind their father, all smiles and glowing compliments about their new home.

Max can’t help the rush of pride in his chest.

The cousins are home for a couple weeks, just to visit their father and Aunt Ariadne, who greets Max with a warm hug and arguably the greatest compliment imaginable: “Wow! You look just like Arthur these days. Doesn’t he, Dom?”

“He does indeed,” Uncle Dom replies, smiling.

The presence of the Cobbs solidifies the scene outback as being sufficiently Californian, with their blond heads and smiling, tan faces. The cousins quickly strip down to their bathing suits and jump right into the deep end, where Pat is clinging to Eddie (not exactly being the  _most_ confident swimmer in the world). Pat squeals when waters sprays them and Eddie barks with laughter, half-heartedly attempting to shield his mate’s face. 

Max and Arthur have set up a little shaded area for the babies, who are crawling around and playing on a couple blankets. Taj sits between Max’s legs, leaning against his father’s stomach and chest as he watches the bigger kids play. As usual, Aady is being very polite with Abby, sharing all her toys, but she occasionally snatches one away from her brother, who whimpers in distress.

“ _Aady_ ,” Max says, using the warning tone he’s learned from Arthur, which signals his daughter is seconds from a timeout.

Aady frowns. “Sowwy, dada,” she says, handing the toy back to Charles. That’s a phrase she’s learned and implemented a plethora of times: _sowwy, dada_ , and she’s even perfected the doe eyes that accompany the apology — the expression that makes Ravi coo:  _It’s all right, my angel_. But Max just shakes his head disapprovingly, as if to say:  _I’m on to you, little lady_.

Frank and Bengie are next to arrive, and the alpha looks infinitely relieved when Arthur announces he isn’t on baby duty this afternoon. “Geez, thanks, Arthur,” Frank replies slyly, but he ends up sitting in the shade anyway, perhaps reflexively, to greet the babies, who all scream with glee when they see him. Max can’t help but notice the way Bengie stays close by his side, which is normal, but there seems to be a little more clinginess — a tad more fondness in his eyes — when he watches Frank play with the children.

 _Interesting_.

Aady holds up her favorite headless Barbie doll to Bengie and Max’s lips drop open in surprise. “That’s….a huge compliment,” he points out.

Bengie smiles and accepts the offering. “Thanks,” he says, sitting down beside the babies. 

Eames and Ravi grill up a bunch of burgers, hotdogs, and veggies for everyone, and they eat on paper plates at the circular table located underneath a big oak tree. It’s nice, having everyone besides his siblings over for the day. He doesn’t know what’s been going on with Rose and Jack lately, but he’d wager their absence has something to do with Peter and Selena, respectively. You know…if he was a gambling man. The group pairs off into two groups: the older attendees (Arthur, Eames, Uncle Dom, Aunt Ari, Eddie, and Pat), who take over the pool, and the younger crew (Max, Ravi, the cousins, Bengie, and the babies), who remain under the tree playing with the kids. The only older alpha to cross over is Frank, who probably couldn’t be pried apart from Bengie’s side with a crowbar. 

Max loves his cousins, but he’s never been able to connect with them on a deep level. Whereas he met Ravi very early on in his life, and became committed to the concept of family fresh out of college, James and Phillipa are world travelers, and rather…well… _saucy_ , if he was to put it generously. Phillipa is regaling them with tales of her travels, and various conquests, much to the embarrassment of poor Bengie, and amusement of Frank, who smirks and simply comments: “Jesus Christ. Does your father know about all this?”

“Oh God,  _no_ ,” Phillipa laughs. “He’d have an aneurysm.”

At one point, Ravi makes his excuses and claims he has to “check on the hotdogs” on the grill, even though there are no hotdogs on the grill, and the charcoal isn’t even burning anymore. Max lets him go, though, because he knows James makes him a tad bit uncomfortable, especially when he gets a couple drinks in him.

And James has more than a couple, since he has snuck in a flask and is taking generous swigs from it as he squints across the yard. “The British guy is hot,” he comments.

Max is so used to his cousin making those sorts of remarks about his father that it takes him a beat to realize James is talking about Eddie. He laughs heartily. “Well, too bad for you, he’s very much taken. They just had a baby, James,” he adds, hoping to shame his cousin into dropping the matter.

But shame is so  _not_ James’s style. He simply squints thoughtfully, staring at the alpha.

***

Pat declares that he’s turning into a tomato under the sun’s rays, so they get out of the pool. While Pat is drying off and changing in the downstairs bathroom, Max tells Eddie to use the master bath upstairs, so he does. He quickly showers and is toweling off when the doorknob suddenly jiggles. “Occupied,” he announces casually, not really thinking to be more stern in his proclamation. It’s probably just Pat looking for him, or maybe one of the little mites, who are about tall enough these days to reach up and turn the doorknobs themselves. What he most certainly isn’t prepared for is James to  _open the door and walk into the bathroom_. Eddie is so shocked that he barely has time to hold the towel in front of himself — at least to cover the essentials. “James!” he cries, surprised, and then alarmed when he realizes there is no shock registered on the young man’s face. 

Actually…he almost looks a little disappointed. But why?

“Oh…” James sighs, pouting as he shuts the door and leans against it. “I was hoping you’d still be in the shower,” he purrs, a wicked grin breaking across his face.

And though Eddie knows it would be thoroughly un-alpha-like to cry for help, he stills feels deeply vulnerable when he realizes this is no accident.

James bursted into the bathroom  _on purpose_.

He swallows thickly, taking a step backwards. James is blocking the only exit of the room, and he’s in no position to physically remove the young man. God forbid they get into a scuffle, and he drops his towel, and Pat walks in. What will his mate think catching him in that state?

“Now, see here, young man,” Eddie says, doing his best fatherly impersonation, which only seems to further encourage James, who worries his bottom lip with his teeth. “Stop that,” he growls. “This is inappropriate and you’re drunk.”

“So what?” the omega whines, sulking again. “Don’t be so uptight. We can just have a little fun…”

“Most  _certainly_   _not_ ,” Eddie spits, finally overcoming his surprise so he can be suitably angry. “I’m mated. Pat and my child are downstairs, or did you forget that?” His hands fumble so he can wrap the towel around his waist.

James watches the whole time before sighing dramatically. “You’re no fun…all of you with your  _mates_ and  _babies_ ….”

The sulking routine has clearly worked wonders for him in the past, but Eddie is unmoved. He simply nods and orders, “Move,” which after a bit more pouting, James eventually does.

***

After dressing and going downstairs, he must still look pale and shaken when he walks into the kitchen because Arthur glances up from his task of cutting apple slices and frowns at him. “What’s wrong?” he asks, and Eddie initially plans to deny anything is the matter, but then Max looks up curiously from the table, and…well…it’s just the two of them in there, and James is outside with everyone else, and he feels he should tell someone.

“James….was inappropriate with me,” he whispers, glancing over his shoulder, just in case anyone is in the adjacent rooms.

Arthur blinks slowly and Max sighs, shutting the magazine in front of him. “What did he do now?” the younger omega asks.

Neither of them seem the least bit surprised.

“Well..um…” Eddie stutters, trying to think of a tactful way to describe what’s just happened. He doesn’t want to be too graphic, of course. “I was in the bathroom…upstairs…and James walked in when I was….”

“Naked,” Arthur offers, smiling faintly when Eddie, flushed and embarrassed, stares back at him. “Yeah, that’s…Sorry. He can be a bit forward like that.”

“Does anyone else know?” Max sighs. “Pat?”

“No,” Eddie answers quickly, “And I don’t want him to know.”

“You don’t want me to know what?”

Eddie wheels around when he hears his mate’s voice, and Pat is standing there, Abby cradled in his arms, as he looks up at him inquisitively. 

 _Bugger_.

***

The patio door slides open and Pat storms out onto the yard, face frozen in an uncharacteristic scowl. Eddie is close behind him, now holding Abby, as he desperately tries to soothe the omega in a hushed whisper: “Poppet… _Pat_. Wait…”

But it’s no use. James is out there, standing between his father, Ariadne, and his sister, as they chat with Bengie and Frank, and they all look up in surprise when little Pat cuts a path across the yard and stops before them, finger angrily pointed in James’s direction. “Excuse me, I need a word,” he states, voice trembling in barely suppressed anger.

Eddie can hear Arthur and Max scrambling to hurry behind them, perhaps thinking they’ll need to tear Pat off of James. He doesn’t think it will come to that, though. 

….Probably not, anyway. He’s never seen Pat raise his voice to another omega, let alone physically attack one.

In his peripheral, he sees Eames slowly close the grill and make his way closer to the growing crowd.

“Yes?” Dom asks politely, though there’s a note of concern in his voice as he watches Pat.

“No, with  _him_ ,” Pat spits, pointing at James. “You were… _inappropriate_ with my mate.”

Eddie doesn’t know what to do. He should step in and physically place himself between the omegas, but he’s holding Abby, who is oblivious to the drama, and is batting at the side of his face for attention. Likewise, Eames and Ravi also seem at a loss of what to do. Eames is standing just behind the Cobbs, clutching a spatula, and Ravi is located on the blanket under the tree with the twins. They both occasionally look his way, as if awaiting orders, or a request, but he isn’t sure what he should be asking for.

“Inappropriate how?” Frank, of all people, asks, brows raised in curiosity.

“He…” Pat spits, flushes and flustered, “…Walked in the bathroom when _Eddie was naked_.” He whispers the last few words, but they all hear them.

“ _Really_?” Frank asks, grinning wolfishly.

“Ugh, James,” Phillipa groans, sounding thoroughly fatigued by her brother’s antics.

“Oh boy…” Ariadne sighs at the same time, gaze downcast towards her shoes.

Dom frowns and looks at James. “Is that true?”

The omega rolls his eyes and smirks, slurring: “Was an accident…”

Poor Pat. He seems genuinely amazed the young man is denying the accusation. He sputters, but before he can give himself a total conniption, Arthur steps forward and gently touches his shoulder. “It wasn’t an accident. You did it on purpose,” he says calmly, looking at James. 

“You’re a….” Pat spits, searching for the right word, “ _hussy_.”

“Now, wait a second,” Dom interrupts, gaze pleading as he looks at Arthur. “Surely this is a misunderstanding.” When Arthur shakes his head slightly, his expression transforms from concerned to annoyed. “I see,” he mumbles, handing his glass to Arthur. “If you’ll excuse us, I should get them back home.”

“But—“ James says, Dom’s hand already gripping his arm.

“That’s enough out of you,” he mutters, flashing a fake, but polite, smile at them. “Sorry about that.”

“Um, yeah..” Ariadne chimes in, smiling slightly. “Good seeing you, guys. Let’s do it again soon, okay?”

Arthur smiles slightly. “Sure…”

With a final wave from Phillipa, the Cobbs disappear into the house to make their way to the front door, and then the driveway.

Eddie takes a cautious step forward and wraps his free arm around Pat as he balances Abby on his hip. “All right, poppet?” he asks, leaning down to kiss the soft bed of freshly-dried blond locks.

Pat huffs, but leans against him. “Yeah,” he responds softly.

In their wake, the remaining crew remains silent for a few moments until Frank (of course) pipes up: “Man, omegas these days. Promiscuous as all hell.”

“Shut up, Frank,” Eames grumbles.

Not that the scolding fazes him for even a second. Frank simply keeps talking: “Now, I’m not one to cast judgment,” he adds, winking at Bengie. “That’s just not for me…”

Bengie flushes a bright pink color.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Since when?” he smirks, crossing the yard to help Eames with plating another round of burgers.

Frank’s still grinning at Bengie’s blushing face. “Since now.”


	60. More Frengie and Arthur finds Eames’s old Myspace page

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank and Bengie work on their issues and Arthur finds Eames's old Myspace page
> 
> Note: the role of Juan is played by Pedro Pascal

Everything is going great with Frank, so he should have suspected it couldn’t last forever. They’re almost like a normal couple these days: living in domestic bliss, kissing lots, sleeping together in the same bed, and Bengie doesn’t even have as many nightmares anymore. But then he’s washing the dishes one afternoon when he drops a glass and it shatters on the floor, and the whole world comes crashing down with it. The rational part of his brain knows everything will be all right — that Frank would never in a million years physically discipline him — and yet he can’t stop the panic attack from overwhelming him.

He bursts into uncontrollable tears, which causes his lungs to seize, and he can barely breathe by the time he rushes into the bathroom and sits down on the floor’s cool tiles. That’s where Frank finds him, and the poor alpha is frantic as he checks Bengie for cuts, logically assuming he must have hurt himself to wind up in such hysterics. The worst part is, he can’t even talk to reassure Frank. All he can do is shut his eyes and suck in shallow, desperate small gulps of air.

The glass incident opens up the flood gates, and is the first moment when Bengie knows he’s not all right.

But he wants to be all right. With every fiber of his being, he wants to be healthy and happy.

In particular, he wants to be intimate with Frank, but anytime the alpha makes a move, he freaks out or freezes. Frank has been more than understanding, never forcing the subject, appeased with their long make out session. Still, Bengie feels like a failure that he can’t give Frank this one thing — sex — an alpha’s birthright. He has always been taught that as an omega, he is nothing more than a pleasure-giving receptacle, and if he can’t give this to Frank, then he’s broken.

He tries to suppress the panic. One day, they’re kissing on the bed and Frank pushes him onto his back and sprawls against him, so Bengie tries to stay relaxed and receptive beneath the man’s weight, his hands roaming across the alpha’s back and tugging up his shirt so he can massage the bare flesh along his lower back. Frank seems to like that because he groans into his mouth, which feels nice, and his body is actually starting to warm up, muscles relaxing, when suddenly the alpha grips his neck. The fingers are gentle, merely stroking, and yet Bengie immediately panics.

He doesn’t know what happens next, but suddenly Frank’s horrified face fills his vision and he’s saying, “Bengie! Bengie…Come on, say something, sweetheart,” and he’s shaking him for some reason.

Only later, when his brain is fully functioning again, does Frank explain he went limp and stopped responding. He asks Bengie what’s wrong, but he doesn’t know how to explain it, so he goes to sit in the bathroom for a while because he doesn’t want to talk to anyone — not even Frank.

He’s broken, and that’s all there is to it.

***

Frank hasn’t kissed anyone this much since he was a teenager. Don’t get him wrong, it’s great. He loves kissing Bengie because the kid is a great kisser — soft, sweet, and eager to please — and they kiss  _for hours_ on the couch, the bed, wherever really, but he eventually gets hard, and wants to take things further. That’s when the omega shuts down and they have to stop. Not that he would want Bengie to go all the way if he isn’t enthusiastic about sex, mind you. Frank is a firm believer in consent, but he’s beginning to wonder if he’s doing something wrong. You know, as an alpha.

The couple times he’s tried to breach the subject, Bengie just smiled sadly and reassured him, saying it’s not his fault. 

He doesn’t know what to do, or how to help, so he just waits and keeps kissing the omega. But then one night, they’re hot and heavy, and he makes a stupid move. All of a sudden, the kid goes limp under him, and for a terrible second, he thinks he really hurt Bengie. The omega’s eyes are open, but he’s clearly not coherent, and he doesn’t respond to Frank’s voice, or when he shakes him. His heart is in his throat the whole time, but then finally… _finally_ …Bengie’s eyelashes flutter and the light comes back to his gaze. 

“Hmm…?” Bengie asks, as if awaking from a little nap.

Frank stares at him. “What the hell was that?” he gasps.

He never gets an answer. Once he explains what happened, Bengie takes off to his usual hiding spot — the bathroom, which means he won’t get two words out of the kid for several hours, maybe the rest of the night.

Frank has seen a lot, but with Bengie, he’s really in the weeds.

***

Arthur is on one of his cleaning sprees. Every few months, he goes into hyper-sanitation mode and purges the hours of any superfluous items — general clutter — and sets about making little repairs, tweaking this and that to maintain the upkeep of their house. Eames weathers this quietly and dutifully, usually coping with his mate’s OCD by fucking off for the day to watch soccer at Pat and Eddie’s. 

When Arthur runs out of real-life items to throw out, he turns to their digital clutter. Eames has never been particularly tech-savvy, so they share a “family laptop,” and with a furrowed brow, Arthur clicks through the random jpegs his mate has downloaded throughout the years. Some of them are strange and random, such as the bevy of houseplant images Eames downloaded during a botany-inspired binge three years ago. Others are naughty, like the entire folder marked “Arthur” full of lingerie images. Arthur smirks when he finds that one, but he doesn’t delete it because he likes Eames’s taste when it comes to this one particular sartorial facet.

Eames has always had a difficult time grasping concepts like  _cookies_ and  _digital footprints_ , so Arthur isn’t surprised to find that his mate hasn’t cleared the browsing history in a very, very long time. When he types “Omega” into the search engine, the rest of the recently searched item pops up: “Omega is moody during pregnancy.” He smirks and rolls his eyes.  _You’d be moody too if your back hurt all the time and your tits ached_ , he thinks, prowling through the other recent history.

When he sees the link to Myspace, Arthur laughs aloud. Of course Eames had a Myspace profile. After all, where else would a selfie slut post all of his shirtless photos?

It’s clear the alpha hasn’t used the profile in ages — since they mated, it seems. He has hundreds of unread messages, mostly spam, but quite a few from desperate omegas trying to hook up with him. It’s easy to understand why when Arthur goes to Eames’s photo page. The man has posted almost exclusively photos of himself shirtless and posed in various provocative positions. “You idiot,” Arthur smirks, clicking through them, laughing at all the ones of the alpha donning silly hats and grinning like a fool into the camera. 

But then he gets to one of the oldest photos and freezes. It’s a [picture of Jacob](http://theaoidos.tumblr.com/post/89412415723/arthurandeamespornstars-submitted-by-dazeebean), Eames’s ex-boyfriend, with the young man’s face pressed to Eames’s bare chest. He knows for a fact it’s the alpha, even though the man’s face isn’t in frame, because of his goddamn tacky tattoos. They’re in bed together, probably post-coitus, an extremely intimate moment captured forever on film. He permits himself to experience a surge of vicious anger for approximately two seconds before calmly downloading the photo and sending it to the printer. If Eames wants to keep tokens of his various conquests, then he must be prepared to deal with them in his real life.

Like a predator in the wild, Arthur waits in silence for hours, and when Eames returns, keys jangling in the front door, he’s standing in the vestibule waiting for him. Eames smiles his big, dopey smile, and Arthur holds out the printed photo, sticking it right in his stupid face. “What the _fuck_ , Eames?” he growls.

The alpha smoothly transitions from bafflement to horror to annoyance in about three seconds. “Oh, for  _fuck’s sake_ , Arthur,” he groans, shutting the door behind him. “Have you been sneaking about on my old Myspace page? I haven’t used it in ages, darling. I forgot I even had the bloody thing.”

“Bullshit,” he seethes, pursuing the alpha into the kitchen. “You wanted to keep mementos of your various conquests. It’s pathetic.”

“Oi..” Eames interjects, now actually angry. “Have you lost your mind? Do you hear yourself? I haven’t even been on Myspace for decades — not since you and the sprogs.”

“Then why do you still have the account?”

“Because I didn’t think my insane mate would think it was a big deal! I’ve been slightly busy raising three children with you!”

Arthur’s face feels hot and he’s angry — angrier than he’s been in ages. He scowls at Eames for a good thirty seconds before he says: “I don’t want you to stay here tonight.”

Eames stares at him, eyes wide, mouth agape. He’s totally gobsmacked. “You’re joking…”

But Arthur turns and storms into the bedroom so he doesn’t have to look at Eames anymore. He slams the door to punctuate his declaration. No, he’s not joking.

***

Eames shows up at Dom’s house with a duffle bag and seriously weary expression. Dom opens the door, takes one look at him and smirks: “What did you do?”

He steps aside so Eames can shuffle inside, tail tucked firmly between his legs. Eames groans wearily and throws down his bag. “Buggering..bloody Arthur found some old photo of me and an ex,” he explains, heading to the nearest seat so he can dramatically throw himself onto it and sulk.

“Oh boy,” Dom sighs, closing the door. “You really stepped in it, huh?”

“Is that Eames?” Ariadne calls from the kitchen, drying her hands with a dish towel as she enters the living room. She also only needs to look at him for a few seconds before she grins. “You pissed off Arthur, huh?”

Eames frowns. “I don’t like how much delight you two seem to be taking in our domestic dispute.”

“Sorry…” Ariadne laughs. “I’ll make you a drink, okay?”

Eames pouts, just so she makes it extra strong. “Thank you,” he sighs.

“So…which one was it?” Dom asks, sitting on the couch kitty-corner to Eames.

He sighs, wearily rubbing at his face and beard. “Remember the Vegas job…?”

Cobb stares off into the distance for a couple seconds, brow furrowed as he no doubt tries to sort through the plethora of jobs marked “Vegas” and “Eames” in his brain. Suddenly, he snaps his finger in delight that he’s located the correct memory, but then he immediately grimaces. “Oh God. _The stripper_? Really, Eames?”

“Oi…” he frowns, a little offended on poor Jacob’s behalf. “Since when are you all so damn judgmental?”

“I’m not,” Dom says, looking up when Ariadne walks back into the room with their beverages. She’s poured something thick and amber into three glasses, and Eames accepts it gratefully with a muttered  _ta_. “Thanks, love.” He looks back to Eames. “I’m just imagining Arthur’s response. I’m sure he’s not happy.”

Ariadne practically snorts with laughter as she sits down beside Dom. “I bet he’s super pissed.”

He takes a couple generous gulps. Whatever Ariadne poured, it’s strong, and burns on the way down. It’s perfect. “ _Pissed_ doesn’t cover it,” he sighs. “He freaks out whenever he’s reminded of my past because…well…he was rather inexperienced when he and I got together.” For some reason, it feels inappropriate to share the fact that Arthur was a virgin before they mated, even though he’s fairly sure Dom already knows this fact, and the two of them are his closest friends. “I mean, he only had one boyfriend before me. That Julian chap.”

Ariadne and Dom share a meaningful glance. It’s quick, but Eames notices these kinds of things. “Erm…” Ariadne says, but Dom quickly reaches out to squeeze her kneecap, and she stops short of saying whatever it is she was going to say. The two of them are silent for a few moments, faces buries in glasses as they drink. 

Eames slowly moves to the edge of his seat and glares at them. “What do you know?”

Ariadne presses her lips together and widens her eyes, which gives the illusion she’s much younger. “Um…I don’t know anything,” she says and adds: “I’ve just heard things.” She casts a glance towards Dom, who sighs and offers the beta a pained look. “What? It’s not fair Arthur guilt trips him, and kicks him out, and he doesn’t even know.”

“Know  _what_?” Eames growls.

Dom grimaces and gazes into his glass, swirling about the whisky as he sighs: “It was ages ago. After Julian, but before you…and it didn’t last long—“

“Spit it out, Dom,” the other alpha says, setting his glass on the coffee table.

“Arthur had another boyfriend,” he sighs.

Eames blinks slowly, gaze sliding from a regretful Dom to a giddy Ariadne, who grins toothily at him: “He was super hot too.”

Turns out, Dom, the bastard, has photos of the happy couple — just two of them, taken during a summer getaway when Mal was still alive. They’re at a lake, Arthur and the bloke, Juan, shirtless and tan as they smile at the camera. Juan’s arm is casually wrapped around Arthur’s shoulders. Eames stares at the photos for a long time before he calmly states: “I’m going to kill Arthur.”

Ariadne giggles, but Dom is considerably more subdued. “Now, hold on a second. It wasn’t serious, Eames. They never…you know…” he stammers, ears turning red, because Dom’s always been a bit of a hopeless prude.

“Enthusiastically rutted in a boat? Oh, that’s nice to know,” Eames spits, stalking away from the photo album and the couch, and pacing the length of the living room. “He makes me feel like a degenerate, and meanwhile he’s hiding Latin lovers from me. Cheeky little…” he trails off, muttering various ominous things beneath his breath.

Dom shuts the photo album. “Does any of this really matter? I mean, all of this is in the past.”

“It matters,” Eames answers. “I’m going back home, and I’m confronting him on this…”

“Uh, no. You’re sauced,” Ariadne points out. “At least wait until the morning.”

Eames stares at the table, where yet another full glass of whisky awaits him. It’s true. He’s been drinking steadily for about an hour, and getting into a fight whilst intoxicated would be foolish. “Fine,” he grumbles. “But first thing in the morning, I’m going home and rubbing this in Arthur’s smug face.”

Ariadne is curled up on the couch, leaning against Dom’s side as she giggles: “Yeah…Go rub Juan in Arthur’s face.”

***

Author spends the next morning aggressively cleaning the bedroom, and tossing out items he previously showed self-restraint in evaluating because Eames has particular fondness for them. By the time he’s done, there are three angrily swollen garbage bags lining the south wall of the bedroom. When he hears the front door open, he storms out of the bedroom, fully prepared for a confrontation with his mate, but instead Frank is standing in the living room.

“Don’t you knock anymore?” he spits.

Frank holds up his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Woah. Jesus. What crawled up your baby hole?”

Arthur frowns at the obscene description. “Nothing—crawled….What are you doing here?”

The man sighs, stuffing his car keys into his jacket pocket. “I need to talk to you. I was hoping for some advice.”

“Oh…” Arthur answers, surprised. “Uh, sure,” he says, moving to the couch and sitting to indicate Frank may do the same. 

The man does, and proceeds to fill him in on everything: the new relationship with Bengie, the freak out over the glass, and finally the scary occurrence in the bedroom. Frank stammers through the last one, clearly embarrassed to share intimate details of their relationship, which is how Arthur knows this is serious. Frank is the guy who used to text him dirty jokes and photos, but Bengie is different because Bengie is special to him. 

At the end, Frank looks at him expectantly, and Arthur sighs, slowly leaning back on the couch. “I think he might have a Dissociative disorder, Frank. Do you know what that is?” When the alpha shakes his head, he takes a deep breath and continues: “I’ve only seen it in war veterans, but it can happen to anyone who’s survived a traumatic experience. Bengie was terribly abused, and was forced into sexual situations, so now his brain sort of goes offline when he’s triggered. It’s a coping mechanism.”

Frank frowns at him. “But he can get better, right?”

“Maybe…I think he should see a therapist, though,” Arthur answers.

The full weight of the situation seems to descend upon Frank all at once. His eyebrows arch as he quietly digests that information, leaning back in the chair, and sighing loudly. “Christ…” he mutters, fingers raking through his hair, which stands up a bit at the back of his skull. “Okay, can you recommend anyone?”

Arthur nods as he stands up and walks to the kitchen to fetch his address book. “Yeah, Jack used to see a lady back when he was little. She’s really good.” 

Frank stands as well, following him over to the kitchen counter. “I really appreciate it. I never told you this, but I always sort of admired you and Eames…How you guys always have your shit together—“

He never gets the rest of the thought out because suddenly the front door flies open and Eames stomps through it. He and Arthur stare at him in surprise for a split second before the alpha aggressively points at the wide-eyed Arthur. “Who the  _fuck_ is Juan?”

To his great credit, Arthur recovers quickly, cooly glaring at the panting man. “Oh, please. That was ages ago.”

“Oh, was it?!” Eames cries, hands on hips. “As many years ago as my bloody Myspace page?”

Frank blinks slowly and smirks at Arthur. “Nevermind. Nice to know you two are as fucked up as the rest of us.”

***

Predictably, Bengie does not immediately warm to the idea of seeing a therapist. Frank brings up the subject at dinner, and the omega responds by setting down his fork, and quietly declaring to his lap: “You think I’m broken.”

Which is how Frank ends up on his knees beside the omega, covering his hands and desperately trying to meet his gaze. “No, sweetheart. I mean…we’re all fucked up, you know? I’m messed up too.”

“No you’re not,” Bengie responds sadly, maybe a little angrily, on his behalf. The kid never wants to believe anything is wrong with Frank.

“Yeah, I am,” Frank smiles grimly. “You ever wonder why I don’t have a computer or internet? I can’t go online. I’d be too tempted to gamble.” When Bengie looks at him in surprise, he reaches up to cup his sweet face. “I’ll do therapy too. I’ll do anything to help you.”

He knows everything is going to be okay, or at the very least Bengie will go see the therapist, when the young man leans down to kiss him.

***

Dr. Rohrer is a pleasant-looking, middle-aged beta. She has shoulder-length blonde hair and little silver glasses, and her expression is always what Bengie has come to think of as  _supportive_. Whenever he gets stuck, or has trouble describing his feelings, she offers the supportive face and says: “You’re doing great, Benjamin.”

She says he has something called a Dissociative disorder, which sounds scary, until she explains it’s his brain’s way of protecting him. When she asks him to describe details of his sex life with Sean, he finds his memories are patchy, and he can’t remember a lot of what happened. He also can’t remember the specific instances of abuse. He remembers messing up, breaking a plate, for example, then nothing, and eventually awaking bruised and banged up.

“It’s called Dissociative amnesia, and it’s perfectly normal following a traumatic event,” Dr. Rohrer says, smiling calmly and scribbling something in his file.

Bengie nods slowly, taking that in. He never considered himself traumatized, but it makes sense — the panic attacks, the periods where he blacks out.

He’s supposed to make a list of goals, so he does: He wants to have sex with Frank, and he wants to have babies. It seems like a meager, pathetic list, but when he tells it to Dr. Rohrer, she offers her supportive face and says, “Super. Those are great goals,” so he feels better about it.

One day, she says she wants to meet Frank, which makes him extremely nervous. Ordinarily, the alpha sits just outside the door in the waiting room during his sessions, but today Dr. Rohrer says she wants to talk to him. Frank warily enters the room, flashing a wry smile when he sees Bengie, but he can tell the alpha is nervous. “Am I in trouble?” he asks, chuckling as he sits beside Bengie and gives his leg a gentle squeeze.

“No,” Dr. Rohrer chuckles. “You’re just very important to Benjamin. He talks a lot about you, so I wanted to meet you.”

Frank’s face brightens when he hears the news. “Oh yeah? Well, he’s important to me too,” he says, grinning at Bengie, who flushes and smiles happily in response.

The beta smiles kindly at their affectionate exchange, and peers down at his file through her little glasses. “Benjamin has some goals, and I was hoping we could brainstorm ways together of helping him achieve them.”

“Sure,” Frank says earnestly, leaning forward so his elbows are propped on his knees. He looks so eager that Bengie’s chest aches will all the tenderness he feels for him. The alpha wants to help so, so badly, but his problems are of such an intimate nature that Bengie blushes expectantly before Dr. Rohrer utters any specifics.

“Well, most importantly, he wants to have a sex life with you,” the woman says, looking at Frank.

Frank’s jaw drops open and he look at Bengie, who smiles shyly. This isn’t the ideal way to tell him, but he supposes it’s good all their cards are on the table. “Yeah?” he asks softly, smiling in a way that makes Bengie feel warm all over. He can only nod, but the alpha’s eyes shine when he adds: “That’s great.”

“I agree,” Dr. Rohrer interjects, just to let them know she’s still in the room. “But the idea is to proceed cautiously to reduce the chances of triggering Benjamin, so I strongly suggest you two come up with a safe word that Benjamin can say if he’s not feeling comfortable. I also encourage you both to communicate while you’re being intimate. Say what you like and don’t like, and check in with each other to make sure everything is okay.”

Frank looks gravely serious as he nods, taking in the various suggestions. “Sure, no problem,” he says, looking at Bengie. “I can do that.”

He knows he must be beet red at this point, his cheeks warm to the touch when he reaches up to feel them. It suddenly occurs to him that both Frank and Dr. Rohrer are looking at him, expecting him to weigh in on her diagnosis. “Um…that sounds good,” he answers timidly, flashing a smile.

And it does sound good. He wants to have sex with Frank.

He just hopes he doesn’t mess it up.

***

It feels a little like an awkward first date the next time he’s alone with Frank, and they’re seated on the edge of their bed, gazing shyly at each other. Finally, Frank cups the side of his face and leans forward to kiss him, and Bengie sighs in relief into his mouth. They’re good at this part, fitting together perfectly. Frank is a great kisser — firm, without being pushy, and Bengie melts beneath his efforts. He reaches for him and touches the reassuring bulk of his biceps and his chest, and Frank runs his fingers through his thick mop of hair.

When they separate, Frank touches his cheeks reverently. “What do you want to do?” he asks.

Ordinarily, Bengie would answer that he wants to do whatever the alpha wants, but he’s not supposed to do that anymore. Dr. Rohrer specifically said he has to work on communicating. “Can we go slow?” he asks, failing to declare his desire as a statement, but knowing Frank will catch his true meaning.

“Yeah, of course,” Frank says immediately, but adds: “Tell me what you want to do.”

Autonomy is a strange gift. It’s empowering and liberating, but also terrifying. Bengie simply isn’t accustomed to stating his desires, so it takes him a few seconds to connect what he’s feeling with a visualized concept of what he wants to happen next. “Can I see you naked?” he asks timidly.

The request seems to surprise Frank, but only for a moment. He grins: “Yeah, of course,” and then he stands. 

Bengie excitedly scoots up on the bed so he can rest his back against the wall and get a better view. He’s never seen Frank naked before, and he wants to have a good vantage point. The alpha quickly tugs his t-shirt over his head and throws it aside, then unbuckles his pants and pulls them off, along with his underwear. When he’s standing in the nude, Frank holds out his arms and utters a cheeky: “Ta-da,” which makes Bengie giggle.

But then he sobers and closely looks at him. He’s muscular for his age, with a light dusting of hair on his arms, legs, and chest, which tapers off to a narrow trail leading to a nest of pubic hair. The alpha is partially hard from their kissing, but Bengie can tell he’s very well-endowed, a realization that simultaneously makes his heart pound excitedly and fear creep up his spine. 

“You’re really sexy,” he confesses quietly, flashing a nervous smile at him.

“Thanks,” Frank purrs, taking a seat on the bed, keeping a respectable buffer between them. “May I see you as well?”

The formality of the question makes him smile, but he also blushes and nods. “Sure,” he says, climbing off the bed. It’s only fair to return the favor, so he slowly unbuttons his shirt and slides it off his shoulders, and before he can overthink it or psyche himself out, he undoes his belt and wiggles out of his pants and underwear too. When he’s standing there nude, he’s a bit self-conscious, particularly about what he should do with his hands, which he ends up clasping a tad bit awkwardly in front of his crotch.

When he manages to look back at Frank, the alpha is staring intensely at him, eyes a bit glassy when he says: “You’re gorgeous.”

No one has ever called him that before, so he’s not quire sure how to respond. He’s never considered himself gorgeous, after all. Skinny, yes, but it’s odd to think a man like Frank could label him such a term. “Thanks,” he mumbles, hurrying back to the bed so he can sit down.

Frank leans over to kiss his cheek before he says, “So tell me what you want, and what you don’t want.”

Bengie takes in a deep breath as he thinks. They’ve done a version of this exercise in Dr. Rohrer’s office in an effort to get him to articulate how he’s feeling. “I like when we kiss, so we can do that. If things go further, I don’t like to have my neck touched, and I don’t like to be pinned down,” he continues. “I also don’t like to be on my stomach, so I need to see you the whole time. Is it okay if I keep my glasses on?”

Frank smiles affectionately. “Sure, sweetheart.”

He nods, relieved. “Okay, cool.” Now the difficult part. “I’m not sure I’m ready for sex. I’m actually not sure I’ll ever be ready. It hurts and I don’t like it,” he confesses, his greatest fear. He’s terrified Frank will reject him if he’s unwilling to have sex with him. After all, why would an alpha stay with an omega unwilling, or unable, to satisfy them? But he quickly adds: “But I want to….eventually. One day, I do want to try.”

Frank nods and reaches to cradle his hands. “Yeah, we’ll go slow, okay? I’m in this for the long haul, kiddo,” he says, leaning forward to kiss him again.

“Okay,” he echoes, smiling before he remembers Dr. Rohrer’s advice. “Do you have anything you want me to do, or not do?”

Frank shakes his head. “I’m pretty open-minded, and I want you to do whatever you’re comfortable doing. What’s the safe word you chose?”

“Chattanooga.” It was an answer on one of Frank’s gameshows he likes to watch the other night. 

Frank grins. “Chattanooga it is.” 

This time, when Frank lays atop him as they kiss, the alpha is sure not to grasp his neck or wrists, though he does touch Bengie’s hair and his face, but it feels nice. He spreads his legs and the alpha settles between them, the full weight of his body pressing against the omega’s chest. His heart beat picks up when he feels the man’s cock hardening against his stomach, and suddenly he has to pull away to whisper the safe word. Frank instantly climbs off him, and allows Bengie to calm down for a second.

“You okay?” he asks quietly.

Bengie covers his face. He’s embarrassed and frustrated because he knows if he can’t even kiss Frank while the man lays atop him, there’s no way he can do the more advanced stuff. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes quietly. “I don’t think I can do this, Frank.”

“Hey…” the alpha says, scooting closer to take hold of his hands again. “Stop putting such crazy pressure on yourself. I don’t have to fuck you to be intimate with you, Bengie. If you’re scared by that, we don’t have to do it.”

The omega stares at him, confused and unconvinced. “What else can we do?”

Frank smirks. “There’s more to sex than that. There’s lots of other stuff.”

Bengie frowns thoughtfully: “Like what?”

Frank shows him by arranging Bengie on his back, legs parted as the man kisses a warm, moist path from his lips, down the arch of his neck, across his chest and stomach, until he’s kneeling between the omega’s thighs. At first, he’s a little scared, until he realizes the alpha doesn’t mean to penetrate him — at least not with his cock. Bengie gasps and nearly jolts off the bed at the first swipe of the man’s tongue. He cries before the alpha reappears from between his legs again, Frank’s large hands gently cradling his thighs. “Good?” he asks, grinning happily.

Bengie just manages to nod before the man returns to the crevice, wetly tonguing the sensitive spot with broad strokes before he presses the hot tip inside. The omega claws at Frank’s head, fingers curled in his hair, keeping him pinned in place as he whimpers. Frank slides a hand up to his chest, gently pinching at a pink nipple, and Bengie cries out. 

Frank barely touches him longer than five minutes, and he’s shaking when he comes, a powerful wave that rushes out of him before he even fully grasps what’s happening. He’s made a mess of the sheets, and across his stomach, and instantly Bengie is filled with horror as he scrambles away from Frank. “I’m sorry…” he mumbles, hands shaking as he reaches to strip the sheets from the bed. “I can wash it.”

The alpha doesn’t seem concerned by the mess, or the sheets, because he plucks a corner to wipe off the lower half of his jaw. “Sorry for what?” he grins, flushed and victorious, until he notices Bengie is upset. “Hey… _hey_ ,” he soothes gently, grabbing at Bengie’s hands until he has his attention. “Stop apologizing. It’s normal.”

He stares at the man in confusion. Whenever he got wet before, he was punished. “But I messed—“ he stops short when he sees the alarm in Frank’s eyes, another terrible moment when he realizes what he thought was normal is not normal. It’s not  _normal_ for an alpha to beat his omega when he gets the bed wet. Bengie sits down heavily on the mattress, head hanging in shame. He feels stupid for not knowing even the most basic things about being in a healthy relationship.

As usual, Frank reacts with an endless reservoir of support. He slides closer to him, wrapping an arm around his bony shoulders. “You get wet so the sex doesn’t hurt,” the man explains softly, as kindly as he can, and yet the words still sting. “It’s so it feels good for you.” He never got wet before because he never wanted the sex to happen, and Bengie is suddenly filled with the terrible realization that he’s never had consensual sex until he met Frank — that what he had before wasn’t  _normal_. He was a prisoner, and now he’s traumatized from it. “Was it okay?” Frank asks, voice tinged with doubt for the first time.

Bengie leans against him and kisses his cheek. “Felt really good,” he says, not wanting Frank for a second to think he’s done anything wrong.

He can feel the man relax at his side. “You taste so good,” he admits quietly, burying his nose and mouth in Bengie’s damp hair.

The words make him feel warm all over, and again flood him with certainty that they did the right thing. Frank is his mate — every inch of Bengie knows it, which is why he melted effortlessly beneath his hands. He processes the rest of the man’s words. Maybe, if he gets wet, he can accommodate the rest of Frank. It might even feel good. Then they can make a baby and start a family together.

“I love you,” Frank suddenly whispers against the top of his head.

Bengie feels like his chest splits open, his heart too full and happy to be contained by something as puny as his ribcage. Never before has a moment in his life seemed exactly right in every way. It makes perfect sense that he’s here, with Frank, so vulnerable, yet sated, but most importantly, safe.

“I love you too.”

***

Eames can’t remember the last time he was this angry, and he must be radiating some extremely pungent pheromones, because once he gets whatever he’s asked Arthur for, Frank fucks right off, hurrying past him and out the front door. As usual, Arthur looks completely unfazed, maybe even slightly annoyed, as he coolly stares back at the alpha. 

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“ _I’m—_ “ Eames bites off whatever he was going to say next, the acidic words lodged in his throat. All these years, Arthur has played the part of virginal saint, and cast shame on Eames for all his dalliances, and yet he’d kept not one, but  _two_ relationships secret from him. “You lied to me.”

“No I didn’t,” Arthur answers, unshaken by the accusation.

“Omission is lying, Arthur,” he growls.

The omega rolls his eyes. “Don’t talk to me like I’m a child. I didn’t tell you about them because they didn’t last very long, and I never slept with them. They were barely relationships at all…” he says, breezing past Eames and walking into the bedroom.

Eames pursues him, charging through the door, only briefly pausing when he spots the garbage bags. He smirks. “Oh, spitefully throwing away my things again?”

Arthur turns, crossing his arms. “Just some ugly odds and ends,” he says, brow quirked challengingly.

 _Right_. He stalks over to him, looming inches from Arthur’s face. “Bored, are we?” he asks, voice pitched low. Arthur doesn’t respond, but defiantly lifts his chin a centimeter. “Trying to get a rise out of me?” he asks, dipping a little closer to breathe in Arthur’s scent. The unmistakeable smell of arousal fills his sinuses. “You knew I’d go to Dom and see the photos of you with what’s-his-face, and you wanted me to know you’re desirable to alphas. Am I wrong?” He never responds. Instead, Arthur stares at him with wide, dark eyes. Eames wants to kiss him until his lips are bruised and swollen. “Pull down your trousers and lean over the bed,” he instructs gruffly, moving away from Arthur so he can he can collect himself for a second.

The omega has a gift for getting under his skin, but he can’t lose control completely, or he could seriously hurt him. Arthur silently obeys, walking to the bed, unfastening his trousers and letting them pool around his ankles. He’s not wearing underwear, which only solidifies the theory that this was part of his plan all along. Sometimes, Arthur doesn’t know how to ask for the things he wants, so he goads Eames into acting by throwing little fits, planting the seeds of a quarrel, or pushing the alpha’s buttons.

Eames feels foolish for not realizing earlier what he was up to, but no matter. It’ll be better now that they’ve had a day to marinate in their anger. Arthur arches his back so his rear sticks out tantalizingly, and wags his ass back and forth slightly, as if waving a red cape in front of a bull. Eames smirks as he approaches, slowly, so the omega can feel him drawing closer. Arthur eventually stops moving, head bowed as he waits for Eames to touch him. He lets Arthur wait. “What do you have to say for yourself?” he asks, voice level and authoritative.

The omega sighs, pressing the side of his face into the mattress, and when he glances down, he sees Arthur’s thighs are already wet. “M’sorry, daddy,” Arthur purrs, slipping into his role.

“For what?” he asks, reaching up to pull the shirt off his back and toss it aside. Arthur must hear the garment hit the floor because he whimpers and another pulse of moisture rushes out of him. Eames inhales greedily, his cock hardening before he can even slide the slacks off his hips. 

“Being bad…” Arthur sighs vaguely, perhaps having a difficult time thinking coherently, but he eventually adds: “Going on your Myspace page…and for lying…” 

Eames taps the back of his dress shirt. “Take this off,” he instructs, watching Arthur arch his back and struggle to obey until he finally shakes the garment off his arm and it falls off the side of the bed. “Good boy,” he praises and Arthur moans softly — just at the sound of his voice and the thought he’s pleased Eames. “But you  _have_ been bad,” he adds, splaying his hand in the middle of Arthur’s shoulder, fingers tips stretching across the omega’s spine.

Arthur sighs and arches his back. “Yes, daddy,” he repeats, pressing his hips back slightly.

Eames leans away, unwilling to allow Arthur to be the one to make first contact. “So you deserve to be punished,” he adds, hand pressing more insistently to keep the omega pinned in place. His free hand sails down suddenly, firmly clapping against the side of Arthur’s rear. His mate cries out loudly, in a mixture of surprise, arousal, and perhaps a little pain. But then again, Arthur has always preferred a little pain during rutting. Eames rubs the red patch of skin apologetically, tisking softly. “You’ll be good from now on, won’t you?”

Arthur doesn’t answer and Eames smirks. That means he wants a bit more punishment. Eames strikes him again, a little harder, sending him rocking across the bed. Arthur wails, eyes pinched shut as he relishes the plethora of emotions. His face is flushed a lovely shade of pink, and his brow has broken out in a thin sheen of perspiration. Eames strokes his back down to the dimples above his ass, and he can feel Arthur trembling, another pungent wave wafting up when more wetness pours out of him.

Eames straightens up and raises his hand higher, striking Arthur three times across his backside until the omega is practically shrieking: “I’m sorry! Ah! I’m sorry!” he cries, raw and wet beneath Eames’s hands. 

The alpha lays across his back, biting and kissing his neck, beard dragging against and burning the flesh as Arthur groans loudly. “You’ll be good?” he breathes against his ear.

“Yes..” Arthur whimpers, forcing his hips back so he can grind his ass against Eames’s rigid cock.

He grips Arthur’s chin and angles the omega’s face so he can kiss him in reward. “Don’t move.” Eames stands up again and grips Arthur’s hips, dragging him forward so he’s balanced over the edge of the mattress on his toes. Arthur obeys, his figure limp as the alpha positions him, and he whimpers when Eames presses the head of his cock against his hole. “Ready, love?”

“Yes, daddy. Fuck me hard,” Arthur moans.

Eames swears beneath his breath and presses forward. Arthur is tight, but more than receptive, and he lets out a loud cry that sends vibrations up Eames’s pelvic bone and spine. “ _Fuck_ ,” Eames growls, gripping the omega’s hips tightly as he pumps forward. Arthur cries out again, writhing against the bed, no doubt trying to grind his erection against the bedspread. “Hands,” the alpha orders, and after a moment of whining, Arthur presents his wrists behind his back so Eames can grip them as he fucks the omega.

This way, Arthur can’t touch himself at all. As part of his punishment.

“Shit…Eames…” he gasps, and the alpha understands the implicit warning in those words. Arthur is close — very close, and he’s been worked up all day. He’s going to come soon, and hard. 

His hips clap against Arthur’s rear, bouncing the omega at the end of each thrust, and Arthur takes it beautifully, gasping and crying, but never telling Eames to stop or slow down, even though he’s pinned in an awkward position. Not for the first time, Eames experiences a strange blend of simultaneous (and extreme) arousal and affection for Arthur seconds before the omega yells, heralding the great flood between his thighs. He never, ever survives that feeling, and soon he joins him, thrusting as deep as he can until he’s buried to the hilt.

He releases his mate and collapses across Arthur’s back as the knot begins to grow, and he’s dimly aware that the omega is clawing at the blankets, desperately moaning something, but it takes him a while to realize what he’s saying: “Eames…please…” And then he understands what Arthur is asking of him. 

Eames grips the back of his neck and holds him in place. “Shh..” he soothes, kissing the back of his skull. “It’s all right, darling. Just breathe.” He watches the side of his face: the furrowed brow, the slight grimace, and when Arthur opens his eyes, the trace amount of fear that is still there, despite all the times they’ve been here before. “There’s a love. You’re doing so well.”

Arthur moans softly, blissed out on endorphins and Eames’s praise. Together they collapse onto the bed, Eames being careful to arrange them, Arthur’s spine pressed to his chest as he splays kisses along his shoulder and the back of his neck. Apparently the omega approves because he hums happily. He groans again once the knot is fully expanded and the alpha begins to come. 

Afterwards, Arthur laces their fingers together and Eames raises their hands to his mouth so he can kiss his knuckles.

“I sent you to Dom’s on purpose,” he finally quietly admits. Eames hums because, right, that isn’t exactly a surprise. “I want you to delete your Myspace page.”

He grins slowly. “Yes, love.” As if he’d wanted to keep the bloody thing anyway.

Arthur is quiet for a few moments before he adds: “I hate the idea of you being with anyone else.”

The feeling is mutual. “How do you think I felt? Seeing those bloody photos?” he asks, pressing his mouth to Arthur’s ear.

Turning slightly to look at him, Arthur searches his face, but he’s not sure for what. “But I was never  _with anyone else_ ,” he emphasizes. 

Eames sighs. “Arthur, they can’t hold a candle to you, darling. And it was ages ago. I was a louse, and Dom kept chasing me away from you, so what was I to do?”

His dark eyes glimmer as a slow grin curves his bow-shaped lips. “He chased me away from you too. He said you’re a pervert.”

He chuckles, leaning down to nip at his shoulder. “Well, he’s right there,” lingering against the pale skin, the tip of his nose brushing along the curve, up to the crook of the omega’s neck. This is his favorite time — when Arthur smells his most alluring. Lots of alphas would argue omegas smell the best before sex, but he begs to differ. He adores the smell of his sated, content mate. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you, but I knew I didn’t deserve you.”

“You deserve me,” Arthur chastises gently. “You’re a good man.”

“ _Now_ ,” Eames corrects, kissing his cheek where a dimple begins to bloom.

“Yeah, now.” 


	61. Rose and Peter's date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose and Peter's date

Max moving into the White House, raising a beautiful family, and inviting them all over for wonderful meals serves as a kick in the rear for Rose to get her shit together and fix her life. Well, that and the experience of nearly dropping into limbo forever and ever. Item number one on the itinerary is to grocery shop. She purchases crisp, vibrant produce and chucks out everything frozen and bagged in the freezer and cabinets. At the end of the errand, for the first time in her young adult life, the refrigerator is fully stocked. 

She stands in front of it for a while, door open, hands victoriously perched on hips. It feels like a momentous moment, so she texts Selena a photo of it with the caption: “BOOYAH!”

Selena responds a couple moments later:  _Proud of you, slugger_.

Next, she takes a day to pamper herself because it’s the weekend and she’s earned it. Rose is selfless as the next beta, but she’s also aware she went above and beyond on this last job, in order to save her dads, and now she plans to reward herself. She takes a long bath, clips and pants her nails (toes and feet), deep conditions her hair, and even cuts a couple slices of cucumber to place over her eyes as she takes a long, luxurious afternoon nap. In the evening, she attempts a long, complicated recipe with lots of ingredients and four pots simmering on the stove  _at the same time_.

She also documents this feat with photos and texts them to her dads: “BEIN ADULT”

The responds comes seconds later from Arthur, who is always faster on the draw texting than Eames:  _Excellent. Dad says to watch the sauce and not burn it. Love you._

She turns down the burner from a four to a two. As usual, Eames is right, the sauce is perfect, and she eats her meal in front of the TV because she’s only willing to take this adult thing so far. She watches the local news, and when a picture of a young man’s mugshot pops up on screen, she takes a photo and sends it to Max with the added message: “Doesn’t this guy looks like Jack?” The convict does look a little like their brother, but only a little bit. Regardless, it’s as good excuse as any to pester her little brother and see what he’s up to.

Max responds seconds later:  _Peter is moving back to California._

Rose nearly drops the fork onto her lap, but at the last second she calmly sets it onto the plate and stares at the message for a long time. Theoretically, this is just a casual update from her brother — just idle chit chat about a childhood friend of theirs. But practically, the update is much more. She and Peter have had a casual flirtation (at least on her part) going on for as long as any of them can remember, but they always had a convenient excuse (Peter’s out-of-state status) to serve as a buffer between their light, fun, informal arrangement and anything concrete, serious, and adult.

They could never get more serious because Peter is a big-time NFL player in Arizona, but now…he’s coming home. “Did he get cut?” she asks casually.

_Nah, traded_

“Oh…his parents must be psyched”

_Yeah, so Jack and I are going to visit the Aldens later in the week I mean IF YOU WANTED TO COME SEE HIM OR WHATEVER :) :) :)_

Rose rolls her eyes and tosses aside the phone. Fucking Max. He, along with the rest of the family, have been trying to pair together her and Peter for many years, and she just knows the pressure is going to ratchet up even further now that he’s moving back home. No way is she walking into that kind of hostile war zone, so after finishing dinner, she instead texts Peter separately: “Hey…heard you’re coming back to town. We should get coffee.”

Because coffee is their light, fun, informal permanent-standing arrangement, but this time, instead of responding in his normally lofty fashion, Peter answers:  _Let’s do actual dinner this time. At a place with cloth table linens. The whole deal. You interested?_

Rose smiles slightly at the screen because this is Peter’s way of nervously asking her out on a real date, and using humor as the vehicle. It’s familiar because it’s how Rose operates too, and…well…how could she possibly resist?

“Sure :)”

***

She is an inhuman monster for ever having teased dear, sweet Selena during her panic attack pre-date with Jack, and she admits as much via text as she stands in front of her closet, staring at her mutinous wardrobe. Rose is neither a tomboy, nor a girly-girl — not ever one to deliberately shun feminine culture, and yet she’s always had a problem adhering to the ethereal qualities usually found in most omega-types. 

 _Show me_ , Selena texts, and so Rose takes photos of the three dresses she’s considering: one short and flashy, the next more formal and black, and the last one long and flowy.

 _Wow…well the first one is way too short. He’ll see your vagina before you say hello,_  Selena responds immediately and Rose pauses to reflect on her choice, and yeah, she can see the omega’s point. So she puts the first dress back in the closet.  _I like the other two, but the third one is more fun. I think more you, you know?_

“Totally…thank you. I’m having a panic attack.”

_Don’t worry. You’ve known him so long and he already basically worships you. Just be yourself._

Which is just  _so totally_ easier said than done because, yeah, she’s known Peter a long time, but he’s always been Jack’s friend, a tangential presence in all their lives — a nice, good-looking guy with whom Rose practiced flirting. At least, she’s assumed that was their arrangement, but now she isn’t sure because Peter has continued to stay in touch with her all these years, and he still hasn’t mated with anyone, and now they’re at an age where that’s expected of them, and…

Rose sits down on the edge of the bed and holds the soft, frilly hem of the dress in her hands. She believes things happen for a reason — that there must be an explanation for why she is the one who dropped into limbo, and as a result flipped through a rolodex of her life’s most meaningful moments. Within that highlight reel, Peter was a consistent theme, and not just Peter, but Rose’s own sense of self-worth. She’s not just afraid of a life with Peter, but she’s also terrified of trapping Peter in a subpar bond when he’s amazing and could have anyone.

But the confident, rational part of her brain also knows that’s bullshit — that she’s a smart, loyal, amazing person because her fathers raised her to recognize her strengths. Also, Peter is a grown man capable of making his own choices, and thus far, every indication leads her to believe he’s _choosing her_.

Why does she keep running from this?

“Okay…” she sighs. “Enough.” With that, she stands and proceeds to get ready: hair, makeup, carefully descending the dress over her head so to not upset the original work. Her hair falls in soft waves around her face, makeup tasteful (soft pink lips, light blush, a little mascara), and she puts on the necklace her dads gave her at graduation: a diamond droplet at the end of a delicate chain. She considers herself in the bedroom mirror, then snaps a selfie for Selena.

_Daaaaamn boo. You look so pretty. Get him!_

Rose grins and looks back at her reflection.

Okay. She can do this.

***

The problem with Peter is he keeps getting better-looking every time she sees him. He somehow looks even taller and broader – tanner, with whiter teeth too, when she exits her apartment building and he’s standing outside his car to greet her. He smiles brightly, clearly thrilled to see her, and she finds herself smiling in return. “Hey!” she greets, slightly self-consciously because this is so very different than how they usually meet. For instance, he’s never picked her up before, nor has he ever donned a smart suit.

“Wow…you look beautiful,” Peter responds, leaning down to kiss her cheek, which pretty much solidifies this is a for-real date.

She doesn’t remember what she says exactly — something about him looking nice too as she moves as fast as humanly possible to get into the car. Then they’re driving to the restaurant and she shifts the conversation to safe territory: his move back home, his parents, Jack and Selena dating — literally anything that doesn’t directly involve the two of them.

“You’re happy, though? That you’re back?” she asks, temple pressed to the seat so she can watch his profile.

“Oh yeah…” he says, flashing a smile. “I’ll get to spend more time with Abby, and see all my friends….get to hang out more with you,” he adds, and Rose can see the self-consciousness sweep across his face during the last confession. Just in case she decided to interpret the last admission as a casual friendship-type offering, he clarifies: “I want to see you more. Take you out…really treat you well, like you deserve.”

“Oh…” Rose says, shyly looking down at her lap, but knowing she has to say something because Peter is being brave right now, and it’s not fair to demand he be the only one making sacrifices. “I’d really like that. I’m sorry if I’ve been distant. I’ve just been working out some stuff.”

And because he’s Peter, he doesn’t ask a million nosy questions, or seem jaded in any kind of way. He simply smiles and casually answers: “That’s okay. You’re worth waiting for.”

What’s a girl supposed to say to that? Rose simply laughs, almost snorts, because here Peter is, the same Peter she’s known her whole life, who Jack once pushed into the mud and then Peter tackled in return, and the two of them trudged inside like swamp monsters, and Arthur yelled at the both of them. Here that  _same dude_ is, being sweet and hopelessly romantic. “You’re so stupid,” she giggles, and even  _that_ makes him smile, so Rose feels compelled to add: “And crazy handsome. That’s how you get away with saying corny shit like that, huh?”

Peter grins: “Must be.”

***

The restaurant is beautiful, with cloth table linens (as promised), plus a real candle in the middle of the table, and an all-French menu that Rose can read fluently. She even impresses Peter by ordering for them both, and bantering a little bit with their French waiter.

“Wow…” Peter says, once their order is placed and the waiter is gone. “That…was very impressive.”

Rose grins. “Not bad, huh? That’s literally all I have to show for living in France with my aunt,” she says, laughing.

“You can order shellfish?” he smiles.

“Yes, only shellfish, though. If you’d wanted the lobster, I couldn’t have helped you…”

They both dissolve into giddy, relieved laughter. This is them normal: joking, bantering easily. This is the part Rose feels like she could do forever. But all the while, this cloud of unknown stuff hovers just above their heads, and Rose knows Peter is warming up — psyching himself up — to tackle the enormous elephant in the room, so she drinks her first glass of wine quickly. Just for courage.

“Are you seeing anyone?” Peter asks once their entrees are in front of them. It’s a nice, subtle alpha approach to marking his territory, or perhaps testing the waters to see how Rose responds.

She smirks, picking up a shell and spooning out the oyster. “Nope. Been too busy with work. You?” she asks, a bit startled at how her heart skips a beat when Peter takes a moment to answer. It has, of course, never occurred to her that Peter  _might_ actually be seeing someone else, and he hasn’t been playing the part of dutiful, wait-listed partner.

“No, no one. Training takes up most of my time.”

Rose laughs. “Oh, good. That’ll save me from having to stab anyone.”

Peter smiles, his face gently lit by the candle, and not for the first time, she’s struck by how very handsome he is. “Oh yeah? Well, that’s good to hear.”

***

Rose takes home half of her entree in a box, and Peter offers to carry it, along with her coat, as they head back to the car. She takes the opportunity to lean against his side, and he’s always been a smart young man, so he catches on quickly and wraps his free arm around her shoulders. It’s nice, and they fit together well, making the languid journey back to the car pleasant and enjoyable. 

“You wanna come back to the house and see Abby with me?” he asks suddenly.

It’s totally not the offer she was expecting, but then again, had he suggested taking her back to his place, there’s a very good chance she might have balked and called it an early night. Peter seems to have anticipated that possibility and offered the next best thing — taking Rose home to his parents, as an official girlfriend, to show his intentions are pure and serious.

Peter’s always been a nicer, sweeter version of Jack — classic Alden: all open-faced, smiles, and lovely core. There’s not a bad bone in the man’s body and he’d die to protect the ones he loves. It takes her a second to answer because she’s suddenly overwhelmed by the fondness she feels for him, and how much she’s missed his presence all these years.

“Uh…yeah, sure. Let’s go see Abby.”

***

It’s weird to show up in full hair and makeup, but Pat is southern, so he loves it.

“Oh my gosh! Look at you! Oh, you look so pretty. Eddie, get my camera.” And then it’s like prom — she and Peter in front of the door, awkwardly posed, as Pat takes about a thousand photos of them with a real camera, not just his phone. “I’ll send these to Arthur,” Pat promises.

Abby is freaking adorable, dressed head-to-toe in pink, and while she’s seen the baby before, they’ve never gotten quality one-on-one time like this. To make matters even more unbearably cute, Peter is wonderful with her and it’s clear the little omega adores her big brother. Everything he does cracks her up, and she’s in the crawling phase, so as soon as Peter throws himself down on the living room floor, she climbs all over him. Rose sits nearby, smiling and watching, and occasionally playing with Abby and her toys.

Pat and Eddie hover nearby, tossing the odd compliment her way.

“You’re quite good with her,” Eddie notes.

“She  _loves_ Rose,” Pat concurs, in the none-too-subtle way of parents, who approve of their son’s choice in mate, and might be hankering for roles as grandparents.

Still, it feels so good to know she has the support of Peter’s family — that even though she’s a beta, they love her, and are excited to not only have her in the family, but for Rose to bear Peter’s children. Of course, that’s skipping ahead in the timeline of events, but Rose can’t help picture that life for herself after the experience in limbo. She’d always considered her fathers immovable objects, permanently fixed to each other’s sides, but as it turns out they were once scared, stupidly brave young people thoroughly infected with wanderlust. Arthur was, and remains, an omega insistent on breaking the mold, and Eames loves him for it.

Why shouldn’t she have that for herself too?

For the first time ever, she thinks maybe that all  _can_ be hers.

Rose helps Pat pours glasses of lemonade in the kitchen. “I’m so glad you decided to visit. We missed seeing you around here,” he says, smiling in the way that makes him look lit from within. It’s an omega thing, but Pat’s really perfected it.

“I missed you guys too,” she answers honestly. The Aldens were always a nice reprieve for them as kids because, while Arthur and Eames are amazing fathers, there was oftentimes turmoil in their home: with Jack, with the dangerous men, remnants from her fathers’ previous lives. Meanwhile, the Aldens’ home was a constant source of warmth and support, especially for Rose, who never felt ousted simply because she’s a beta.

“I know Peter missed you too,” he hints in a totally transparent, but well-meaning, way that makes Rose smile. “He’s like Eddie, you know…He sometimes has a hard time saying that stuff out loud.” He hands Rose a glass and she takes a sip. Naturally, it’s the most delicious thing she’s ever tasted because Pat is basically the Martha Stewart of omegas. “I always thought you’d be a good match for him because you go for what you want. I respect that about you.”

Well then. She clears her throat and sets down the glass momentarily. There it is: all their cards on the table. Peter has brought her by to see that Pat and Eddie approve of their potential courtship, and now it’s up to her to ante in, or not. 

“I thought maybe I missed my chance,” she admits quietly, unsure if Pat will catch her meaning.

He smiles slowly. “Honey, it’s never too late.”

***

Those words ring in her head the whole way back to her place. She knows in the depths of her bones that Peter won’t take things further tonight. That’s just not his style. This one is the slow burn — the kind that takes a while to get going, but lasts longer because of it. Besides, there’s no reason to rush now that she knows his intentions, and she finally believes she’s safe with him. Most importantly, Rose knows she deserves Peter, and all the happiness they might build together.

He parks the car and walks her to the door. Classic Alden. Peter hands over her leftovers and coat with a little flourish and she smirks, setting it on the stoop. “Why, thank you, sir,” she says, overly formal.

“My pleasure,” he answers, smiling, maddeningly adorable. A little clearing of his throat to denote a key chance. “I had a wonderful time tonight. We should do it again soon.”

“Agreed,” she smiles, tucking a curl behind her ear. There’s a precarious moment when the night feels as though it’s reached its natural conclusion, like every “date” of theirs before this one, but just when she feels him pulling away — drawing back into his shell — Rose surges forth, grabs him by the front of his jacket, and drags him midway for the kiss, their first kiss. She shouldn’t have done it, that goes without saying. Thoroughly un-beta-like. But Rose doesn’t care because she’s in the business of taking what she wants.

The second Peter touches her lower back — cups it and pulls gently, but firmly — she knows he’s slipping back into his alpha skin, and she gasps appreciatively against his mouth. Her hands fly up to his shoulders, pulling as the kiss takes on a desperate edge a second before they separate. They’re standing centimeters from each other, Peter’s heavy breath washing across her lips, and she looks straight into his lovely eyes — that calming shade of blue. “I don’t want you to think I haven’t noticed you,” she whispers.

“I know. I wanted you to come around on your own, though,” he says, reaching up to tenderly stroke her cheek, and to push a few strands of hair behind her ear. His hand could easily cradle the entire side of her face, and he dwarfs her now, strong arms cradling her waist. She’s not one to swoon, but this is the closest she’s come in a very long time.

“Oh…well…good, then,” she stammers, hands sliding against his broad chest as the alpha releases her slowly.

His face is fond as he smiles. “Good.”

“So I’ll see you…”

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Oh yeah…that’s. Cool.”

“Goodnight Rose.”

“Night Peter.”

And then it’s a mad dash to gather her things from the stoop, hurry inside, and collapse against the door before she blurts anything unforgivably stupid. She can’t resist and peeks out the peephole to watch Peter walk back to his car, and the tantalizing swagger of his shoulders. 

Rose fumbles in the pocket of her jacket to retrieve her phone and text Selena: “Fucking alphas.”

The response, thirty seconds later:  _Preaching to the choir_.


	62. Eames and the puppy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eames gets a puppy, followed by a Max and Ravi update

Arthur agrees to go on a business trip for Dom as a  _freelance intermediary_ , whatever the bloody hell that means, to South America, “just for a few days,” as he puts it. The pay is opulent, but he knows the omega wasn’t considering the money when he agreed to the outing. No, this is about Arthur missing being a cutthroat little tyrant in a pristinely pressed business suit. And he does look gorgeous in his crisp, tailored lines, walking around the house, packing last minute items in his suitcase.

Eames follows him from room-to-room, sulking and asking superfluous questions just to secure his attention. “You’ll call on Skype?” he asks, sitting on the edge of the bed, slipping into a pathetic pout that forces Arthur to stop folding his socks.

“Yes, of course. It’s only three days, Eames,” he chuckles, leaning down to kiss him.

“I know, but…” he trails off, allowing Arthur to fill in the rest.  _I know, but…we haven’t been apart more than a day in decades and I can’t live without you._

Arthur sits down beside him, gently nuzzling against his cheek. It feels nice, and he can smell the omega’s sweet scent, so Eames slides an arm around his waist and pulls him closer. “I’ll miss you too,” Arthur whispers, fingertips partially sliding under his shirt, which is unbuttoned to the collarbone. Eames hums in response, already imagining eating dinner alone and going to bed alone, and not being surrounded by Arthur’s warmth and lovely scent.

This whole idea is rubbish. “I hate Dom,” he murmurs, nothing but sincerity living in his heart, and yet Arthur smiles and laughs.

***

The second Arthur leaves for the airport, Eames knows he’s not going to be able to survive three days just sitting around the house, watching television. First thing he does is call Eddie to see if the other alpha wants to come over and watch the World Cup, but the man doesn’t answer his cellphone, which means he’s most certainly busy with whatever task Pat has given him today. Next, he calls every single one of the sprogs to invite them over for dinner, a barbecue out back. 

Rose is evasive, which leads him to believe she’s going on a date, but he doesn’t press her for details. Jack is free, but only tomorrow, so Eames switches the plans to suit his schedule. With the new date in mind, he calls Max, who’s obviously busy with the babies, but he must hear the distress in his father’s voice because he covers the mouthpiece and engages in a muffled conversation with Ravi. When he comes back, he says: “Sure, dad. I can make it.”

He’s feel a bit like a pathetic old ninny by the end of the calls, but at least the boys are coming over and he won’t be alone with his treacherous brain.  

Satisfied, he nods and sets aside his cell phone. Then he sits on the couch for a bit and looks around. The house is silent without Arthur — a dark, lifeless tomb, and he hates it. Eames quickly stands up and goes into the bedroom because at least that room smells more like Arthur. Somehow, he finds himself in front of the dresser, opening the drawers and touching the omega’s clothes. It feels too good to allow the creepy undercurrent to dissuade him, and he keeps looking through the items until he reaches Arthur’s secret drawer — the one with all his wonderful lacy bits.

Eames can’t even bear to touch those, so he swiftly shuts the drawer, and hurries into the kitchen to find his car keys. He has to get out of the house.

***

Arthur shouldn’t have left him alone. This is really his mate’s fault. 

By the time the boys come over the next day, there’s a little beige pitbull puppy sitting in the middle of the living room, staring up inquisitively at all of them. Jack’s arms are full of wrapped meat and bottles of soda, and his eyes are huge as he stares at the critter, probably because he used to scream and shout until he was red in the face, begging his fathers for a dog, and now here it is — the manifestation of his every childhood dream — except now he’s an adult man, and his father is a lonely old git who’s made a terrible decision.

Arthur is going to kill him.

Max’s jaw is practically on the floor. “Who is this?” he asks, crouching down and offering his hand, so the puppy can hurry forth and sniff his fingertips.

“Duke,” Eames answers sullenly. The name just came to him after he pulled into the gas station and discovered the poor little mite huddling by a dumpster, clearly abandoned, or lost, or whatever the case might be. He would have most certainly died had Eames not taken him home and fed him some scraps of meat from the refrigerator. 

“Oh man, dad is going to murder you,” Jack laughs, finally snapping from his daze.

“Aw, I think he’s sweet,” Max says, smiling as the puppy braces his front paws on his chest and licks at his face.

“I’m in so much trouble,” Eames groans.

Duke plays in the yard as the three of them set up the grill and lay out all the food. The puppy is barely old enough to operate his little legs, and he occasionally tumbles across the grass, delighting in all the new scents as he rolls around and chews at the lawn. Meanwhile, Jack starts up the grill and Eames sits down at the table under the umbrella. Max slides up behind him and wraps his arms around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “How’re you doing?” 

Eames rests his hands atop Max’s and sighs. All of his children know him very well, but Max is usually keyed into his emotions in a unique way. It’s an omega thing. “I’m okay, ducky,” he says, rubbing Max’s knuckles because he doesn’t want his youngest to ever worry about him.

“You sure? Dad’s been gone a day and you adopted a dog…” he teases, flopping down beside him and grinning playfully.

Eames smirks and watches Duke roll around. He sighs: “I’m no good without your dad.”

***

Dinner is wonderful and he feels happy and content listening to his boys trade stories, and because it’s just his brother and father in attendance, Jack also opens up about Selena.

“So things are going well,” Eames says, leaning back in his chair, rubbing idly at his stomach.

“Yeah, really, really well,” Jack answers, grinning in a goofy, thoroughly in-love way that is all too familiar to Eames. 

“That’s so great. You should get married and start having babies,” Max says because that’s what the omega wants for everyone, since he’s in a happy marriage, and loves his children.

Jack laughs. “Let’s not jump ahead, okay?”

They’re stuffed with good food and feeling sated and content when the sun is low in the sky, and it’s clearly a time when the boys should be shuffling back home. But Eames is dreading sleeping in the house alone, so he extends the offer to the boys that they can stay the night if they want. Jack and Max share a wary look, and it’s obvious they have other plans or obligations that making staying overnight impossible, but they’re good boys who love their father, so neither of them want to decline.

He feels a bit foolish, so he amends: “I mean, I know you’ve got the sprogs, ducky, so if you can’t stay…”

“No, no,” Max says quickly. “I can have Frank and Bengie come help Ravi. It’s just one night, dad. Really…it’s no problem.”

Which, of course, means Jack cannot weasel out of the plan. If Max, with three children, can stay the night, so can he. “Yeah, it’ll be fun. We can watch movies and stuff.”

Phone calls are placed, and after everything is settled, they set up camp in the living room, Max curled up against Eames as Jack sits on the floor in front of them, head resting against the couch as they watch one of the old action films they used to view together as a family. It’s an enormous relief to have at least two of the sprogs home with him, and Eames has his arm around Max’s shoulders, and he occasionally presses a kiss to his youngest’s head. They’re about halfway through the film when his cellphone vibrates on the coffee table and Eames springs off the couch.

“That’ll be your dad. Don’t pause, Jack. You keep watching,” he rambles as he rushes into the bedroom to answer the phone. “Darling?”

“Hey! I’m so sorry it took me so long to call. Internet here is shit, so I can only talk. I’m sorry,” Arthur sighs.

“That’s all right. How are you?” Eames says, smiling just because it’s so nice to hear his voice.

“Oh, this was so stupid. I miss you and the kids. I miss the house,” the omega complains, and Eames’s chest swells with affection. It’s nice to know he’s not the only one having a total mental breakdown. “Did I mention I miss you? These kids are incompetent and the forger is terrible.”

Eames grins, puffing up a bit at the compliment. “Well, no one is good as your Mr. Eames, ay?”

There’s an alluring, saucy tone to Arthur’s voice when he answers: “Not even close.” Suddenly, there’s a knock in the background and Arthur sighs, pulled from the safety of their intimate conversation. “I’m sorry. I have to go. I’ll call tomorrow before I leave for the airport, but I’m coming home soon, okay?”

It’s mad that he feels this upset — that his throat actually tightens a bit because he knows Arthur is going to hang up soon. “I love you, darling.”

There’s a weighty pause, and he can almost see Arthur’s face: the wide, dark eyes, full of so much fondness and sadness. “I love you.”

***

“Does the bond get stronger…as you get older?” Max asks quietly. The film is almost over, and Jack has dropped off to sleep, head reclined back as he snores softly. 

Eames hums, cheek pressed to the top of Max’s head as he watches Bruce Willis lay siege to an office building. “Oh yeah, especially once you have little ones. I’m sure you’re felt it with Ravi, hm?”

“Mhm…” Max agrees immediately. “Yeah, I miss him even when he runs errands.” They continue to watch the movie for a little while before he adds: “I’m sorry you’re lonely, dad.”

“Oh, I’m fine, ducky. Your dad gets home tomorrow, but it’s nice to have you two here,” he chuckles, though his point is somewhat undermined by the presence of Duke, who is curled up on his other side, chin resting on paws.

***

They awake in the morning when there’s a knock at the door. Jack immediately starts moaning about his neck because he slept with it bent at a strange angle all night, and Eames climbs off the couch where he spent the night spooned around Max, just like they used to when he was a little boy. He stumbles to the door and opens it, eyes blinking as he squints up at a fresh-faced Eddie.

“Heya, mate. I saw you called. Bad time?”

“No, no. Come in…Just have the boys over,” Eames greets, gesturing for the other alpha to come inside.

Jack and Max sleepily greet Eddie, and they congregate in the kitchen so Eames can make them all tea and coffee. “All right?” Eddie asks them generally until there’s a scuffling sound on the linoleum floor and he looks down to see Duke frantically scrambling towards his feet. “Hey!” he laughs, squatting down to enthusiastic ruffle the pup’s head and ears. “When did this happen?”

“Yesterday,” Eames moans. “Arthur’s going to disembowel me.”

“Aw, surely not,” Eddie grins. “Look at this little face. You’re a sweet boy, aren’t you?” he asks Duke, whose tail is wagging frantically. “Where is Arthur, anyway? He still sore about the fight?”

Eames cringes because, right, he forgot to mention to the boys that he and Arthur had a tiff the other day over his old bloody Myspace page, and ex-boyfriends. 

“What fight?” Max asks from his spot on a stool by the kitchen island. He’s frowning because Max has always hated when his parents quarrel, even though he’s grown now, and should know a petty fight between them would never spiral into something dramatic like a divorce.

“Just a misunderstanding…” Eames pivots, handing Jack a cup of coffee before he moves to put the kettle on.

“Pat said he found your old Myspace page with a photo of an old boyfriend,” Eddie blurts, perhaps distracted by his love connection with Duke, because when he looks up, a wave of guilt crashes across his face, as though he’d forgotten Eames’s sons are also standing in the room. “Oh…sorry.”

Bloody gossiping omegas. 

“Oh shit,” Jack chuckles.

Now Max looks very concerned. “What old boyfriend?”

“Nothing, ducky. Really, it wasn’t serious. Just a stupid bloody mistake I made years and years ago,” Eames mumbles, busying himself with finding tea mugs and bags. This isn’t exactly the ideal conversation he wants to be having first thing in the morning with his sons. With Max present, it’s like having a sweeter, more sensitive version of Arthur upset with him all over again.

“Couldn’t have been that big of a mistake if you took photos,” Jack chuckles, teasing his father as alphas are wont to do.

Eddie snickers as he continues to play with Duke, but Max doesn’t see the humor in the situation. The few times their old love lives were brought up in front of him, Max always got upset when he was a little boy because he hates the idea of his fathers being with anyone else. “I’m gonna go brush my teeth,” he mumbles, climbing off the stool and heading directly to the bathroom.

Eames sighs and turns around to look at Jack. “Why’d you have to say that? You know Max gets upset about that stuff.”

“Sorry…” Jack grins, not sounding the least bit sorry. He squints thoughtfully at his father for a second before his expression brightens. “Wait, was this that guy we ran into at the grocery store that one time?” Eames doesn’t even have to respond because he must look instantly guilty. Jack bursts out laughing: “Oh man! This is classic.  _And_ you had a photo of him on Myspace? Wow…you’re lucky dad didn’t kick you out.”

“He did…” Eames grumbles, switching off the kettle and pouring the piping hot water into the mugs. “But he forgave me because we love each other.”

“Uh-huh, and you’re a dirty dog who’s lucky to have him,” Jack chuckles.

“Cheers,” Eddie says, immediately standing once a cup of tea is presented to him because he’s a good English gent like that. He sits down beside Jack at the counter. 

Now Eames is annoyed. Not only did he not want to talk about this, at this hour, in front of his children, but now he’s being made out to be some great pervert when in fact Arthur is not the total innocent everyone is making him out to be. “I’ll have you know I learned about another little boyfriend your scoundrel father hid from me all these years, while he was busy shaming me for my youthful indiscretions,” he says smugly, blowing on his tea before sipping delicately.

Jack and Eddie stare at him for a wholly satisfying fifteen seconds.

“Who?” Jack finally asks.

“Some bloke named Juan,” Eames shrugs.

“ _Juan_?” Jack explodes in laughter. “No way. Dad had a thing with a dude named Juan?”

Which of course is when Max walks back into the room, and it would be funny if he didn’t look so genuinely horrified. “Why are you guys talking about this stuff?” he grouses, sitting down heavily beside his brother, who is still wearing a shit-eating grin. “Dad’s not here to defend himself, and he forgave you anyway, so let’s stop talking about it.”

Eames sighs, only glancing at Eddie long enough to see the man mouth: _Sorry_.

“Sure, love. Sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you,” he says, gently patting Max’s hand.

***

After morning coffee and tea, the boys have to leave, and Eames hugs them before sending them off with a genuine thanks for spending the night with him. Eddie takes over Eames-watching duty, and they watch a World Cup match, switching from tea to beer once the sun is high in the sky. Duke swiftly falls in love with the other alpha, spending the majority of the match curled up on his lap as Eddie idly scratches behind his ears.

“What time does Arthur get in?” he asks idly.

“Evening. He actually emailed me the link to the flight,” Eames says, fishing his phone from his pocket so he can try to find the email. He’s never been very good with electronics, or digital anything, though, and he finds it difficult to read the little screen. “Do me a favor, mate. Go open the laptop in the kitchen and read me the itinerary.”

Eddie hums, gently pushing Duke off, so he can shuffle to the kitchen and flip open the laptop. Eames continues to squint at the screen, trying to navigate the swipe pad with his thick fingers, but he’s always had trouble accurately tapping the letters, and this time is no exception. When he looks up, Eddie is indeed standing in the kitchen in front of the computer, but he looks a bit pale and his eyes are about the size of saucers.

“All right?” Eames calls.

“Um…” Eddie answers, face flushed. Eames stands and joins him in the kitchen, only to see he’s stupidly left the  _Arthur_ folder open on the desktop — the one with all his dirty fantasy items for his mate to wear. “I, uh…none of my business, mate. I’m sorry. It was just open already…” the other alpha stammers.

He chuckles, rubbing at his face, because this is all just so ridiculous. Arthur left him for three days, and in that time he’s managed to have a full meltdown, beg his two grown sons to spend the night with him, adopt a dog, and now reveal his mate’s lovely cross-dressing inclinations to his best mate. Eames strokes his beard as he stares at the folder, particularly a red corset he’s had his eyes on for a while. “My fault…” he concedes. 

There’s precisely ten seconds of silent awkwardness before Eddie speaks: “So…Arthur’s….into this stuff?” He’s wading cautiously, attempting to bridge the uncomfortable divide without deliberately trampling on their private life. Eddie is embarrassed — mortified, really — but he’s also strangely intrigued, as he is about all things involving Arthur. Eddie looks at Arthur the way other people view exotic animals at the zoo. He’ll never fully understand Arthur, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t occasionally interested in his various bizarre, thoroughly un-omega-like traits.

“Uh, yeah,” Eames confirms, unable to see a reason to lie. 

Eddie nods slowly, staring at the screen for a moment longer before he offers an olive branch. “Pat…sometimes wears stuff like—well, not  _like that_ , exactly, but, say, a thong.” When Eames looks at him, surprised, he shrugs, offering a self-deprecating grin. “I can’t complain, ay?”

They end up laughing like a couple of school boys, maybe just from pure relief that neither of them are really alone, and both of them are culpable due to their specific circumstances. That’s the nice thing about having an alpha for a best mate. They don’t have to fully talk it out, or feel judged. Eddie might not fully  _get_ the fetish, but he knows what it’s like to be attracted to everything about his mate, and he would never judge Eames for loving everything about Arthur.

***

Arthur specifically says he does not want to be picked up at the airport. Or as he puts it, “I want to see you at home,” which can mean only one thing — the thing that ordinarily Eames would want to do with Arthur, above all other things. It just so happens this time he’s also the proud new papa of a tiny puppy, who has already had one accident on the carpet, though he at least had the good grace to tuck his tail between his legs and crouch in the corner, looking at Eames with pleading eyes as if to say:  _I didn’t mean to. Please don’t send me away_.

Eames cleaned the spot but there’s still a wet patch on the carpet.

Arthur is going to murder him.

He sits on the floor, rubbing Duke’s head and playing with him until he hears Arthur pull into the driveway. Then, he springs up and waits by the door that leads to the garage, practically pacing the floor until the door opens and Arthur is standing there. The omega instantly drops his bag as Eames rushes forth and grabs him, hugging him so tightly that it must hurt, but Arthur never complains. He kisses his mate’s face, then his mouth, and Arthur moans in approval, clawing at the back of his shirt.

“Fuck, I missed you,” Arthur whispers, sounding a little surprised — not that they miss each other, but the magnitude of the loss.

“I know the feeling,” Eames answers cheekily, grinning at him.

“C’mon,” the omega says, reaching down to grab his hand and lead him to the bedroom.

Until he sees Duke sitting politely in the vestibule, front paws placed together, curiously gazing up at him. Arthur comes to a sudden stop and Eames looks to the ceiling, saying a silent prayer.

“What the fuck, Eames,” he says — not a question, but a statement.

“Darling, let me explain…” he begins, before realizing there really isn’t a succinct explanation.  _I’m insane_  sounds a bit hyperbolic, but really it was a temporary madness that gave him Empty Nest Syndrome, which in turn inspired him to adopt Duke.

The puppy apparently interprets the silence as his queue to play because he yaps at Arthur, excitedly bowing down and sticking his butt in the air, tail wagging as he darts back and forth. He’s clearly trying to get Arthur to play with him, and Eames doesn’t know how to kindly explain to the dog that Arthur would rather wear him as a smart accessory — maybe a nice scarf.

“I’m waiting,” Arthur spits.

Eames sits down on the floor, taking pity on the poor creature, and allowing Duke to climb onto his lap. Arthur is furious because he’s a micro-manager, and as such he is always to be consulted about major family decisions, and a dog, of all things, is most likely to mess with the careful lines of his life. Eames has messed up, big time, and all because he’s a pathetic wretch without his mate. He sighs, dejected, as the puppy licks at his face. 

“I just missed you…”

Arthur’s face softens suddenly and he sighs, slowly moving to sit beside Eames on the floor. “So I was gone for three days…and you adopted a dog?”

“His name is Duke…” Eames points out.

The omega nods, staring at the excited little creature. “Hello, Duke,” he offers, which is the first moment Eames realizes Arthur might not be planning to kill either of them. “Thanks for taking care of Eames,” he adds, reaching to scratch Duke’s head. “Is this your version of a midlife crisis?” he asks playfully.

Eames smirks. “Better than me buying a convertible, hm?”

Arthur laughs, and just like that the house is bright and full again. He leans forward and presses a tender kiss to Eames’s bearded jaw. “I won’t go away again.”

“Much appreciated, darling.”

***

As usual, Eames has only considered the broad brushstrokes when it comes to the puppy, Duke, meaning he has only planned for being a dog-owner in the abstract. He knows how to give lots of love and belly-scratches, but he hasn’t actually bought any  _dog food_ or  _found a veterinarian_ or  _purchased a collar and tags_. All of the benign little details are left to Arthur, who at first is annoyed, but much like when they worked jobs together, quickly slips into planner mode. He takes Duke to the vet to register him and get all his shots, and they write  _Duke Eames_ on his file, which is kind of cute, he supposes.

He buys food and water bowls, and also a little bed for the dog, and puts the bowls in the kitchen and the bed in the living room. He also purchases a new red collar, and a week later, tags arrive in the mail with Duke’s name and address on them. Eames kneels in front of Duke and clips the tags onto his collar with a very formal decree: “You are now part of the family.”

It’s Arthur who housebreaks Duke by implementing the same pattern of repetition he uses to discipline alpha children. Anytime Duke has an accident, Arthur calmly takes the puppy to the wet patch of carpet, utters a firm, “No,” and then takes the puppy outside until he urinates again. Then he makes a big deal out of it: petting Duke, telling him what a good job he’s done, and brings him back inside. 

The puppy is fully housebroken in three days.

“You’re terrifying. Really, you are,” Eames says, and Arthur smiles smugly nearby Duke as the puppy squats in the yard and defecates.

As far as he can tell, there’s not much difference between a puppy and a newborn alpha — not in an insulting way, mind you, but in the way a puppy exercises recalcitrant behavior, yet wishes to be good and please a dominant omega, such as himself. He sees a lot of Eames in Duke — in the way the puppy follows him around and seems eager to annoy and play with him. Duke loves diving for Arthur’s shoelaces, mouthing and chomping at them, until Arthur calmly picks him up and puts him on his lap.

One time, Arthur is rubbing his belly on the couch and Eames tries to make a move — sitting beside Arthur and nuzzling his cheek. Duke sits up and growls at Eames, much to both their surprise.

“Oh great, he’s in love with you,” the alpha grumbles.

But the truth is Duke loves both of them. He’s borderline clingy, even attempting to sleep in bed with them. Arthur awakes one night to a scratching sound, and when he looks over, Eames is seated on the side of the bed, reaching down to pick up the puppy. 

“No, absolutely not,” Arthur groggily slurs.

“Oh, but darling, you should see his sad little face.”

“Eames,  _no_.”

He’s willing to put up with a lot, but he is absolutely not sharing a bed with a dog. Duke spends the night in the living room, periodically returning to the shut bedroom door to paw and scratch at the cursed barrier, as he pitifully whimpers and cries.

“You’re breaking his heart,” Eames sulks.

Arthur ignores him.

It takes a week, but eventually Duke comes to understand he won’t be sleeping in their bed.

But that doesn’t mean he hasn’t interfered with other areas of their life, such as any other time they shut the bedroom door. Eames is sprawled atop him as they snog, the alpha cupping his face, and stroking his neck, Arthur’s hands snaking between them and wrestling Eames’ trousers open, when suddenly Duke paws at the door and starts whining. “Ignore it…ignore him,” Arthur gasps, pleading, against his mate’s wet, soft mouth, but he can already tell from the way Eames keeps leaning back and glancing at the door that he’s fighting a losing battle.

“Just one moment, love,” Eames says, climbing off the bed.

Arthur throws his arm across his eyes and groans aloud, frustrated, but most humiliatingly of all, usurped by a dog.

“Many rich men wanted to mate me, Eames!” he angrily shouts.

That earns him a few more seconds of attention. Eames’s frowning face pops through the bedroom door as he squints at Arthur. “That Juan bloke was rich as well?”

“His family helped build the Panama Canal,” he responds smugly.

The alpha appears to be gravely considering this newest bit of information, until Duke appears, nuzzling and whining at his ankles. “Yes, yes, daddy knows. Let’s go out back, yeah?” And he’s gone after that — disappeared into the backyard to tend to the puppy.

***

After the impromptu sleepover, Max hurries back to his family, but he hasn’t had much one-on-one quality time with Ravi lately — not until one morning when he slips out of the bedroom to put on the coffee. It’s still early enough that none of the kids are awake yet, and when he sneaks back into the bedroom, he finds Ravi awake and sitting up in bed, reading the morning newspaper. “Priya,” he greets, smiling. He has his little silver frames balanced on his nose, and he looks positively edible, so Max quickly strips down to his underwear and climbs into bed with him. The alpha chuckles, folding and setting aside the paper, so he can properly greet him. “Morning.”

“Good morning,” Max sighs, pressing a kiss to his mate’s bare chest, and then his throat, making his way north until their mouths press together. Thanks to their close proximity, he feels warm all over, the alpha’s rich musk flooding his nostrils and causing his skin to tingle in anticipation. He rolls on top of him, Ravi smiling against his mouth the whole time, his fingertips expertly tracing the line of Max’s spine — barely touching the skin, sowing gooseflesh in their wake. 

All of this talk about mates and bonds has made him appreciate, even more so, what it means to be in a healthy, committed relationship. His sleepover with Eames was the first time in ages he’d been away from Ravi and the kids, and he hated it, so now he intends to make up for the lost time.

“Dada,” Aady calls suddenly from the other side of the locked door.

Max quickly rolls off Ravi and watches the alpha pull on a pair of sweatpants before he opens the door. “Hello, angel. Do you want breakfast?”

Aady trudges into the room, dragging a teddybear, Mr. Paws, behind her. Hair in disarray, squinting sleepily, she looks first at Ravi, then at Max. “Want cakes,” she murmurs. Translation: Aadita requires pancakes for breakfast, and she prefers the way Max makes them.

“Okay, let’s go have breakfast,” Max says, fetching his robe from a nearby chair. He pauses only to lean up and kiss Ravi tenderly, a promise and a raincheck, before slipping out to fetch Charles and Taj. Both of them are already wide awake, Taj standing in his crib in the nursery, and Charles playing with his toys in the twins’ room. Max carries Taj against his hip, and holds Charles’s hand as they slowly descend the steps together and walk into the kitchen, where Aady is seated on her booster seat at the kitchen table, and Ravi is organizing food items on the counter for breakfast.

“What flavor pancakes do you want, Charles?” Max asks from the counter.

The little boy is also in a booster seat, directly beside Aady. He frowns, deep in thought for a second, before he shouts: “Choccy chip!” 

“ _Chocolate_?” Max asks.

“Yah, choccy,” he grins.

It’s the correct response because Aady erupts in a loud cheer, followed by Taj, who has no idea what’s happening, but his older brother and sister are screaming, so that’s all the encouragement he needs to start rioting from his highchair. It doesn’t matter that he’s too young to eat pancakes. He’s an alpha, and that means making a lot of noise is his primary objective. Max and Ravi are used to that level of chaos, and merely share a glance and smirk before setting about heating pans and whipping up ingredients for the pancakes.

Poor Taj has to watch the twins enjoy their pancakes, cut into little bits, as he messily mouths at his smashed peas and creamed sweet potatoes. Aady instantly smears chocolate over her entire face, and Max snaps a few photos on his phone to send to Arthur, who promptly responds: “That’s how your dad eats too.”

When the kids are done eating, he and Ravi clear the table, the alpha stepping close to him as Max washes off a plate, to kiss the back of his head. There the man lingers, and Max assumes he’s simply affectionately nuzzling, until he turns and sees Ravi gazing at him thoughtfully.

“What?” he asks, smiling.

Ravi glances at the kitchen table, where the twins are cracking up over some shared, private joke, and Taj is watching them with wide, attentive eyes. “When’s your next heat?” he asks, voice pitched low.

Max blinks owlishly. He’s been so busy with Eames, and the babies, that he’s sort of lost track, but he’s fairly confident it’s not until next week. “Monday, I think. Why?”

The alpha simply shakes his head. “You’re early then, priya. I can smell it.”

Most alphas have very sensitive noses, but especially Ravi, who is now so tuned in to Max and his needs that the man is a walking calendar reminder of his heats and cycles. Likewise, Max can tell when Ravi is nearing his heat — when the air crackles with humidity and tension. 

Max frowns, glancing at the kids. “Oh…shoot,” he sighs.

“It’s all right,” Ravi says, flashing a smile and kissing his brow. “I’ll take care of things.”

***

Max makes it through breakfast, and the washing up afterwards, but when he retires to the bedroom, the heat quickly overwhelms him. Ravi sits by him on the bed, gently stroking back his hair, which is already damp with sweat. The room has rapidly transformed into a cocoon of the omega’s scent, and Ravi struggles to remain focused. He can’t surrender just yet because the kids are still in the house. 

“Need you,” Max whimpers softly, brow furrowed in an expression of pain.

It breaks his heart to see his mate in agony, and Ravi risks leaning down to kiss him, even though that means getting a whiff of his delicious scent. “Soon. I’ll be back in just a moment,” he promises.

“No,” Max pleads, but he ignores the omega. He has to. 

Five minutes earlier, Ravi texted Arthur and Eames, giving them the bare minimum details: Max is going into heat earlier than expected and could they possibly watch the children? Arthur responded seconds later: “Of course. Coming over now.”

Ravi walks into the twins’ room where Aady, freshly washed, and Charles, are playing on the floor with their dinosaur toys. As usual, Aady is the Tyrannosaurus Rex, laying siege to the land as the lesser dinosaurs, played by Charles, run for cover. 

“Hey beans. Can I play?” he asks, sitting down on the floor.

“Yah, you be April,” Aady says, handing Ravi the April doll from her Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles set.

He’s not quire sure how an intrepid journalist fits into the prehistoric scene, but he gamely joins in, running for cover along with Charles whenever Aady blazes a trail of destruction.  

When there’s a lull in the game, he asks: “Hey, would you guys wanna see Gramps and Pop-Pop?” He already knows what the answer will be, and the twins don’t disappoint, shouting in unison:  _Yeah!_  He grins. “Cool. They’re coming over and you’ll go to their house for a sleepover. Won’t that be awesome?” Another round of  _Yeah!_ Which is when Ravi decides to drop the bomb: “And guess what else? I heard they have a brand new puppy.”

He might as well have said Arthur and Eames are the proud owners of a unicorn. Aady is already on her feet, running back and forth, screaming: “Puppy! Puppy! Puppy!” while poor Charles seems frozen in shock, eyes huge, staring at Ravi as if to say:  _If this is a lie, I will never forgive you, father._

The next phase entails packing, which is fairly easy with Aady enthusiastically shoving large quantities of her clothes into the open bag laid out on the bed. Her philosophy seems to be: the faster she packs, the faster she can get to the puppy. “I don’t think you need a raincoat, angel,” Ravi notes, removing the garment.

Next, he gets the kids downstairs, dressed and with their bags. He carries Taj around, fetching last minute items like jars of his favorite food, and then they congregate by the door until Arthur and Eames pull up into the driveway. “Grampy Pop-pop!” Aady shouts, merging her grandfathers into one person, as is her custom.

“Grampop!” Charles concurs.

“Are those my grandchildren?” Eames bellows on his way up the path, causing the twins to erupt in squealing giggles.

Even Taj gets excited, pumping his fists excitedly when Arthur’s smiling face fills his vision and the omega cradles him.

“Thanks so much,” Ravi sighs as Eames claps a sympathetic hand onto his shoulder.

“Our pleasure. We’re always excited for time with the sprogs,” the alpha grins, leaning down to speak directly to the twins. “I was hoping you might be able to help me. I recently bought some ice cream and I can’t eat all of it on my own—“

Aady immediately cuts him off: “Choccy?!”

“Of course!” Eames laughs.

With the promises of a puppy and chocolate ice cream, the twins practically sprint away form the house, clamoring to get into the car faster than Eames can gather their bags, walk down after them, and get the doors open. They don’t once look back, and Ravi tries not to take it personally. He tells himself, once the ice cream is gone and the puppy loses a bit of its sparkle, the twins will probably eventually miss them. Taj is a bit more loyal, wary and whimpering when Arthur inches towards the door. The baby seems keenly aware Max is no where to be seen.

“Is it bad?” Arthur asks softly.

Ravi casts an instinctive look towards the stairs. “Getting there, yeah.”

As if on cue, Max’s pained voice drifts from the second floor: “Ravi…”

Arthur waves him away. “I’ll let you go. Call me later,” and then he and Taj are gone.

***

Max is naked and writhing on top of the sheets and blankets when Ravi enters  the bedroom next. This time, he doesn’t shut the door because there’s no need to. The house is empty and it’s just the two of them now. “Ravi…” the omega groans again, and he makes a soft, comforting noise with his mouth — hushing and soothing as he sheds his clothing and climbs onto the bed. “Where were you?” Max huffs accusingly, but Ravi doesn’t take it to heart. His mate isn’t thinking very clearly right now.

“I’m sorry, love. I’m here now,” he murmurs, looping an arm around Max’s waist and kissing along the curve of his neck. Max is hot all over — the flesh burning to the touch. He’s feverish, maybe to a dangerous degree, but there’s only one way to bring down his body’s temperature.

Max hums approvingly when the alpha presses against his back, gently rolling his hips so the omega can feel his length pressed against his rear. “Need you,” he whimpers, and Ravi buries his face against his neck against, kissing and breathing in the thick pheromones, the blood rushing south, making him hard and aching within seconds. Max is soaked and open for him, requiring he only dip his hips, arrange the head, and push. “ _Oh_ …” Max cries — loudly — but it doesn’t matter. Max can be as loud as he wants now.

Max babbles and gasps as Ravi ruts him, the omega’s head tossed back, exposing his beautiful, flushed face and his long, elegant neck. Ravi cradles his throat as they move together, and he thrusts to the hilt to coax the sweet, choked whines that vibrate from the omega’s vocal cords to his fingertips.

They haven’t been able to be like this in a while — unbridled and passionate — their normal coupling taking place when the kids are already in bed, and they’re forced to be quiet and quick. Neither of them last very long. Max trembles against him, coming in waves that spell Ravi’s doom. He thrusts three times, roughly, gripping the back of Max’s neck and bowing him forward slightly.

Afterwards, he wraps up Max in his arms, the omega turning his chin until they can kiss, lazy and wet, until the knot expands to the point where Max buries his face into the pillow and cries.

The first time doesn’t break the fever, but Max is a little more coherent after that. “The kids…?” he asks hoarsely.

“With Arthur and Eames,” Ravi answers, kissing his bare shoulder, groping gently at Max’s chest where his previously lovely breasts are now two small, barely-there mounds. 

The omega winces because the area must be tender. Ravi thoughtfully hums and gently squeezes a breast, nuzzling and kissing Max’s temple so he can smell him more carefully. He hums again.

“What?” Max asks softly.

Ravi tenderly kisses his flushed cheek. “You’re pregnant again, priya.”

The omega looks back at him so sharply it’s almost comical, and Ravi can’t help but feel a little smug when he sees the surprise on Max’s face. “No way. Shut up. You can’t tell that….Can you?” he asks, dark eyes wide and searching.

“Yeah, of course. You smell different. I should know what you smell like when you’re pregnant by now,” he chuckles, stroking the omega’s stomach slowly.

Max exhales, head dropping back against the pillow. “Jeez…you don’t fire any blanks, do you?”

Ravi bursts out laughing, playfully nipping at Max’s shoulder until the omega swats at him.

***

It takes four times in total to break Max’s heat. The final rutting is the most coherent — slow and passionate — Max on his back, Ravi between his legs, their mouths locked together when Ravi isn’t telling Max he loves him. Max clings to him desperately, and not just because of the heat, and in the intense grip of his fingers, Ravi can feel all his adoration and loyalty.

“I’m glad…I’m glad..” Max whispers emphatically, clawing at Ravi’s back, his nails raking and cutting, but he doesn’t want to tell the omega to stop. He knows what his mate is saying: he’s glad he’s pregnant because Max wants to have Ravi’s children — as many as the alpha asks of him — and that declaration makes him feel dizzy in a strange combination of animalistic lust and fierce love. 

He collapses atop Max the last time, unable to reposition himself for the knot, and they’re locked like that for a long while, necking and whispering to each other until they can finally separate. The bed is a mess of tangled sheets, the air thick and pungent, and Ravi can barely stand by the end of it, and still he forces himself to move — to fetch Max an entire pitcher of water so the omega can desperately guzzle it down and then collapse against the mattress. 

When they’re spooned around each other next, Max rests his head against Ravi’s chest, and the alpha comfortingly strokes his spine. 

“It’s so quiet…” Max whispers disapprovingly, and Ravi instantly knows what he means. Their house is oftentimes a cacophony of noise, but it's a collage of their children’s voices, and as such it’s beautiful. Silence is unnatural — an unwelcome aberration. “How long has it been?”

“Two days,” Ravi responds. That’s a record for breaking Max’s heat. Usually, it takes three days, but Ravi has it down to a science these days.

“Can you call? I want them to spend the night here…”

Ravi hums in agreement. “Of course, priya.”

By nightfall, the kids will be filling their house with noise and unbridled love once more. As it should be.


	63. Selena distracts Jack at work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: straight smut ahead :D

He’s been on two dates with Selena, not counting their first dinner together, but thus far they haven’t had time to progress beyond fairly innocent kissing at evening’s end. The problem is work. They work all the time, and Uncle Dom has a strict no-funny-business policy that he assumes originates from the time his dads worked together. 

He’s basing this belief on the one time Aunt Ari came to visit the office to bring Uncle Dom some cold medicine, and Jack was zoning out a bit at his desk, staring across the room at Selena, who was wearing a pencil skirt with a slit up the back. She was chatting with Rose, leaning over a bit to point out something — maybe in a file — on his sister’s desk, but every time she moved, the slit opened a bit, revealing the backs of her knees. It was such a hypnotic display, Jack lost track of time, until his uncle’s voice slammed into him like ice water: “Jack, please focus on your work.”

And when he looked up, Uncle Dom and his red nose were frowning down at him, and Aunt Ari was there too, clutching a brown paper bag and wearing a vicious little grin. “Holy crap. I haven’t heard you say that since Eames,” she laughed.

So that’s why he figures his dad has a been of a wandering mind problem too, and the catalyst was probably Arthur.

Damn omegas.

But it’s not his fault, and he’s certainly not being unprofessional because the quality of his work is still stellar. Of course, these days they aren’t entering the dreamscape much. Instead, Uncle Dom is obsessed with dissecting what went wrong when Arthur and Eames were hooked up to the PASIV. He’s insisted they all write out their respective testimonies in excruciating detail to determine the moment things fell apart, and he’s arranged three big wipe boards in the center of the room, across which he’s scribbled theories and hypotheses. 

Ravi shares Uncle Dom’s obsession, probably because he feels a special obligation to sort through the wreckage since Max was so upset about what happened. The two of them spend hours in the lab and in front of the board, talking quietly to each other — Uncle Dom’s forehead wrinkled in thought and Ravi’s eyes dark and tired. 

“Were than any signs — anything at all?” he asks Uncle Dom.

“No, nothing. I did a full evaluation. I followed a twenty-page protocol checklist.” Uncle Dom takes a sip from his coffee mug, eyeing the board. 

“Any history of seizures? Night terrors?”

“No, neither of them dream anymore. It happens in experienced dreamers.”

Jack clears his throat: “My dad still dreams.”

Both of them look over to him, Uncle Dom’s eyes wide. “Who? Arthur? He would have told me.”

“No, Eames. I know for a fact he still dreams,” he says, leaning back in his chair, twirling a pen between his fingers. He vividly remembers walking in to the living room as a little boy and seeing Eames mumbling in his sleep as he napped on the couch. In particular, his father had nightmares after a man tried to kidnap Max. His father would frighteningly shout in the middle of the night, and he recalls walking into the bedroom to see Arthur sitting beside Eames, an arm wrapped around the alpha, comforting him.

Uncle Dom stares at him for a long time. “ _Eames_ ,” he finally growls, stalking across the room, stopping, then pacing back to the board as though he can’t decide which direction he wants to go. “Why wouldn’t he tell me that?” he asks, exasperated.

Jack simply shrugs: “Maybe he really wanted to go under.”

He itches to be hooked up to the PASIV after a long weekend away from the office. He can’t imagine being deprived of forging  _for decades_. If he was in his father’s shoes, he probably would have lied too.

Uncle Dom shakes his head, as if his mind refuses to process this information. “Wait a second, if Arthur knew Eames was still dreaming, he would have told me.”

Jack stares cooly at him, brows quirked. 

The other alpha finally looks away, muttering: “ _Those two_.”

This is how they arrive at the current working theory: that Arthur and Eames had been out of the game too long — that their brains had “reset” in a way, and as such they lost the ability to navigate through the dream. They lost their totems. They even forgot their children’s faces. 

***

Uncle Dom refuses to let anyone go under until they’ve figured out exactly what went wrong, but dreamshare is an imprecise science, and in all likelihood they’re never going to fully understand what happened in Eames’s brain to plunge him and Arthur into limbo. Regardless, all dreaming is suspended until their dear leader calms the hell down, so they’re all a bit bored these days — even Selena, who is a true professional, and as such tries to look busy even when Jack knows for a fact she has nothing to do.

Occasionally she’ll catch him staring, but these days she offers him a playful little smirk to acknowledge him before hurrying off to be terribly responsible somewhere else. 

Rose swings by at mealtimes to drop a saran-wrapped sandwich she purchases every day at a nearby deli onto his desk. “Thanks,” he mumbles, pealing off the plastic to sink his teeth into the bread. It’s good. Tuna. He raises it in thanks.

His sister smirks and sits on the edge of his desk. “You’re not being exactly subtle, you know. With your new girlfriend?” He shrugs, unrepentant. Rose simply laughs and stands up, shaking her head at him. “Whatever, man. Just don’t piss off Uncle Dom.”

He understands Rose’s point, but without a clear mission, and a plethora of pent up energy he can’t expend in the dreamscape, Jack is antsy. And when Jack is antsy, he daydreams, and lately his dreams all center around Selena. 

Jack can’t stop thinking about it, and it doesn’t help that she has a habit of looking beautiful every single day. She’s been wearing her hair down more in soft waves that cascade down her back, and he finds himself wondering if she does it for him — because she knows he likes touching the mane, combing his fingers through it, and pushing the odd errant strand behind her ear. She wears chiffon blouses that billow ever-so-slightly when she walks across the room, hugging the curves of her frame. But his favorite part is the pencil skirts she wears — the way they hug Selena’s slender waist , curving over her ass before tapering off at her legs. 

She’s different than the other girls he’s been with because Selena discreetly masks her sexuality, but that doesn’t mean she’s cold or prude. He’s learned that in his time dating her — that there’s a fire inside Selena waiting to be unleashed. 

It bothers him that he can’t touch her as he likes when they’re at work, and he finds their little civilized playacting both alluring and excruciatingly frustrating. She speaks to him in an overly formal manner about this and that, and he stands there, barely suppressing a smirk, eyes dancing as he watches her lovely face. 

“Is that agreeable Mr. Eames?” her soft pink mouth asks.

Jack nods slowly. “Very, Ms. Kim.”

He wants to taste her — gripping a handful of soft hair, pulling her head back a bit, not too rough, just enough so she can feel his strength — breathing into her mouth, feeling her hands claw desperately at his back.

It feels like an insult and a waste of all their time, sitting around like this, especially for them because this thing between him and Selena is still so new, fragile, and exciting. The only consolation is that everyone seems to be on the same page because the weariness has reached unprecedented levels by the end of the week. Even Ravi cuts out early after informing Uncle Dom he needs to go, and he stops by Jack’s desk briefly because that seems to be where everyone congregates these days.

“Keep this on the down-low for the time being, but Max is pregnant again,” he says, looking happy and exhausted.

“Oh shit!” Rose declares, which is the opposite of  _down-low_ , but Ravi laughs when she hugs him. “Congratulations!”

Selena smiles brightly. “That’s so great.”

“Jesus, you two go at it like rabbits,” Jack chuckles, but he’s standing and rounding his desk so he can be next in line to hug his brother-in-law.

Understandably, Ravi wants to go home early to be with Max, and that starts a mass exodus. Rose asks Uncle Dom next if she can leave early for the weekend, which is really sneaky and brilliant because now he’s less likely to allow Jack to leave preemptively. His sister seems aware of this because she looks smug and victorious packing up her desk, and she even stops by his station on the way out — just to rub a little salt in the wound. “Try not to be too productive,” she smirks.

“Say hello to Peter,” he answers, swiveling back and forth slightly in his chair.

“Oh, I will,” she answers cheerily, blowing air kisses Selena’s way on the way out. “I’ll call you. I love you! You’ll always be in my heart.”

Selena laughs: “Go home, psycho.”

Then it’s just the two of them — plus Uncle Dom, but he’s held up in his office with the door shut. Selena seems keenly aware of this fact because she’s doing everything in her power to avoid him, possibly because she knows he’s harboring illicit thoughts. Jack allows this to go on for approximately fifteen minutes, but when she walks into the break room, he stands up and follows her. Selena doesn’t even look surprised when he walks into the room, locks the door behind him, and twirls the little plastic bar so the blinds close.

She’s in front of the open refrigerator door, leaning against it, clearly in the midst of searching for a snack. “Oh, you’re too much,” she smirks. “Really, Jack? At work?”

He shrugs innocently. “Why not? It’ll be fun, and you look far too beautiful to be filing.”

Selena smiles, laughing aloud, a new habit (at least in his presence). She has a wonderful, melodic laugh. But then something happens — the smile diminishes, something sparking to life in her eyes. “Is that how you want me the first time?”

The full weight of that question hits him like a punch in the gut. The short answer is no. He wants Selena on a real bed, in the privacy of one of their apartments, and he doesn’t want it to be rushed. “Is that what you think of me?” he asks, voice pitched low, because they’ve moved past the territory of casual flirting. Something is going to happen and they both know it. He walks forward slowly, and Selena watches him from behind her barrier of the refrigerator door. He pauses in front of it, gazing down at her. “You think I’d fuck you in the break room?”

She swallows thickly. “What did you have in mind then?”

Jack takes her hand and gently guides her away from the fridge so he can close the door. “Well, first, how about you say hello nicely?” he growls, pulling her against his chest.

Selena gasps in surprise, but she’s grinning. “Oh,  _excuse me_. Hello,” she whispers right before their lips press together. The material of her shirt is extremely thin — almost sheer — so he can feel her breasts pressing against him, and beneath that, her pounding heart. Selena’s hands slide across his chest, fingertips dipping under the lapels of his jacket, and he moans appreciatively. When his tongue dips into her mouth, Selena whimpers, and he takes that as permission to reach down and grip her rear, lifting until the omega wraps her arms around his neck and he carries her over to the break room table.

“Wait…” Selena gasps, but it’s difficult to take her seriously when she reaches down and presses her warm palm against the front of his pants, rubbing at the outline of his erection. “Jack…” she whispers as he unbuttons her blouse — somehow his hands aren’t shaking — to reveal her cream-colored bra. “Jack,  _wait_ ,” she whispers again, running her fingers through his hair when he leans down to kiss the gentle swells. 

“Let me see,” he rasps, tugging the strap just enough so it slips off her shoulder and he can pull down one of the cups and mouth at her breast. “Fuck, you’re beautiful,” he rasps, sealing his mouth around her hard nipple to tongue at it and suck gently.

She moans loudly, thighs spreading when he reaches between her legs, under the skirt, and pushes aside her underwear. “Shit…” she croaks, which is how Jack knows Selena is  _really_ gone. He’s never heard her swear in the workplace before. Between her thighs is a furnace, and she’s soaked, the intoxicating swirl of pheromones pouring from her heat. He pushes open her lips and lightly touches the bud, and Selena nearly jolts right off the table. “Oh god,” she whimpers.

“Shh..” he whispers, rubbing at it in a firm, circular motion. “Feel good?” he asks, lovingly kissing her breast again.

He doesn’t really need an answer because her thighs are hugging his flanks and he can feel the muscles trembling, plus his hand is soaked. “Jack…” she whimpers, groping along his back, and grabbing his hair. He moves his fingers faster and firmer until she’s panting and moaning louder. “Stop…stop…I’m gonna..”

Jack really should stop. He knows that. But he’s seized by desire to taste her, so he withdraws his hand quickly, and reaches under her skirt to pull down her panties. They’re sexy — a red, lacy thong. Selena watches him, flushed, but smirking as he wordlessly pockets them. If she objects to the theft, she never says anything.

“Get up,” he instructs, and she does, long enough for Jack to pull up the skirt around her waist and position her again on the table. He kneels in front of her and Selena eagerly opens her thighs as she lays back across the lacquered surface, the points of high heels angled into the air.

“ _Fuck,_ ” she gasps, reaching down to grip fistfuls of his hair again when his eager mouth laps at her entrance. Selena tastes wonderful — sweet, a bit like a peach, and her scent is thickest between her thighs, so Jack breathes greedily as he uses the tip of his tongue to flick rapidly at her clit, until Selena is quaking, and then he flattens his tongue, swiping at her with broad, firm strokes. “Oh my God…Oh my God…” she whimpers, and the sound is so sexy that Jack quickly opens his pants so he can pull his dick out and stroke himself. “I’m gonna come, Jack. Oh God…”

He hums in agreement, rubbing his face back and forth a bit so his stubble rubs against the inside of Selena’s thighs. She seems to like that because she groans again, and Jack slips in a finger, crooking it a bit as he sucks on her clit. That’s all Selena needs to fall over the edge, back arched off the table as she cries out. She comes in two waves that wet Jack to his neck, and he orgasms instantly, groaning through clenched teeth as he shoots across the floor.

They don’t move for a while after that, even though Jack’s knees are killing him, and Selena is lewdly on display with her skirt hiked up and blouse hanging open. Jack strokes her legs slowly, massaging the flesh and gazing up at her. She’s ethereally beautiful, entrance pink and glistening, breasts heaving as she gasps for breath. When she looks down at him, she smiles and gently strokes his cheek: “You’re my favorite.”

He grins, tucking himself away and zipping his fly. “You’re  _my_ favorite,” he says, standing slowly so he can set about cleaning up after them. He finds the paper towels and starts the process as Selena stands on wobbly legs and cleans herself before straightening the skirt and blouse. Next, Jack finds some spray and empties half the can into the air, hoping that will cover their pheromones.

Selena watches, laughing and shaking her head as she attempts to smooth her hair. “It’s no good. This place reeks of us.” She sounds fond, and she pulls him close so she can lean against him again and kiss him. He hums happily, groping her ass, and then gripping the omega’s narrow waist.

“You leave first. I’ll say bye to Dom and meet you at your place,” he says.

“Okay…” she agrees, her cheeks still blushing. “That was…great.”

Jack does his very best not to look insufferably smug. “I’m glad you approve, Ms. Kim.”

She grins wickedly and slips from his arms. “I really do, Mr. Eames.”


	64. On the matter of Frengie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frank doesn't know how to show Bengie he's in this for the long haul

Bengie worries all the time. No matter how often Frank reassures him, he’s constantly comparing their relationship to the bonded mates around them: the Eameses, the Lallas, the Cobbs, the Aldens. He never says anything aloud, but Frank can tell from the way the omega looks at Max’s kids, and then Max and Ravi themselves, that he feels as though he’s forever falling short of some achievement bar he’s set up in his mind. 

They still haven’t had sex — or rather, not the kind of sex that Bengie thinks “counts” — the kind that will result in a baby. They’ve tried a few times, but Bengie gets uncomfortable, and so they stop. Frank never complains because it doesn’t really bother him, which is surprising, to say the least. A year ago, if someone told him he’d been in a quasi-non-sexual relationship, and be deeply content to boot, he would have called them crazy.

But here he is: with Bengie, and giddy with happiness.

Or he would be if Bengie wasn’t sad. The omega tries to put on a brave face, but Frank now knows him well enough to know that Bengie is lying. He helps Frank all day with the Lallas’ kids, and he knows seeing others with babies, and being unable to have a litter of his own, is eating away at Bengie. In addition to that, the omega is afraid because the little seed of doubt in his brain — that Frank will grow weary of waiting and leave him — has sprouted roots and is growing larger, looming darker every day, inside his mind.

It doesn’t matter what Frank does, Bengie is afraid, and he doesn’t know what he can do to convince him that he aims to take care of him forever — even if their bond never results in offspring.

It’s all Frank thinks about, even when he’s standing in the Lallas’ kitchen one afternoon (a rare instance when Bengie is not with him), and Arthur is prattling on about something that he thinks is very important (something about the kids’ scheduling), and Frank is pretending to listen, but really he’s thinking about Bengie’s sweet, worried face.

“Does that sound agreeable?” Arthur asks, and Frank stares back at him blankly. He’s supposed to say something — most likely  _yes_ — but he doesn’t have the foggiest idea what Arthur’s been talking about for the past five minutes. His silence catches the attention of Max and Eames, who are seated at the kitchen table. Eames looks up from his sandwich, and Max his edition of  _Vanity Fair_ , to warily watch him. They probably know Frank wasn’t listening and are a little afraid for him.

“I’m gonna ask Bengie to marry me,” he says, shocking the hell out of everyone, including himself. He mulls over the words for a second and nods slowly. Yeah, he stands by it.

Arthur’s lips are parted, his eyes wide. Eames bursts out laughing, clapping his hands together. “Oh my days! That’s great news, mate,” which seems to snap Max out of his daze because he smiles brightly.

“Wow, really? I mean, that’s—congratulations!” he says, standing up and crossing the room so he can hug Frank.

Frank hugs Max carefully, avoiding pressing against the small bump of his stomach, as Arthur continues to stare at him. “It’s…fast, isn’t it?”

The jovial aura of the room drops to nil. Max slowly lets go of him and takes a step to the side, frowning at his father, and Eames’s smile diminishes as he leans back, uttering a warning: “Arthur…”

“No, I don’t mean to—I just mean practically….you haven’t been dating that long,” he sputters.

There’s a bitter taste in his mouth, like he just sucked on a penny. “You’re right. Maybe I should knock him up first and then propose,” he mutters, knowing he’s being unkind, but not caring. Fuck Arthur.

Arthur’s ears turn red, and he feels satisfied that the burn hit close to home. “That’s not what I mean—“

“You really think you’re better than me, don’t you?”

“Frank, I’m happy for you—“

“Great. I’m glad you’re  _happy for me_ ,” Frank spits, storming from the kitchen, then the house, ignoring it when Max calls for him:  _Frank! Wait!_

***

So asking the Eameses for proposal advice is out, and he doesn’t really know many other omegas outside of their clan. In fact, he only knows one other omega who might be able to help him, which is how he ends up knocking on a door that very afternoon and waiting until Eddie answers it.

“Frank…” he says, clearly surprised, because right—of course he is. They’re not social outside of gatherings run exclusively by the Eameses. 

“Uh, hey. I actually need to talk to Pat, if that’s okay.”

Pat offers him a snack, then lemonade, Frank declines both, and still somehow ends up sitting at the kitchen table as Pat serves them to him anyway. “I remember you like baloney,” he chirps, smiling as he sets down the plated sandwich (no crust) in front of him.

“Um…yeah. I do. Thanks a lot,” he smiles faintly, taking a small bite to be polite. Eddie is looming in the kitchen doorway, huge and wary, watching. He probably thinks Frank is here to rob them or something because Eddie thinks like Arthur, which is to say he thinks Frank is a louse, and will always be a louse. “This is really good. Thanks, Pat.”

Frank tells him about the plan, and feels marginally better when Pat seems genuinely happy for him, and Eddie gapes at him, gobsmacked. “Bloody hell. That’s a short courtship,” he chuckles, arms crossed over his barrel chest.

Pat waves his hand through the air. “We had a short courtship too. When you know, you know, right?”

Franks smiles slowly, nodding. “Right.”

He confesses he’s lost about what comes next, though he knows he’s supposed to buy a ring, but doesn’t know what kind, or where to go. Pat doesn’t seem deterred in the slightest. In fact, the more naiveté he confesses, the brighter his face glows. “I know just where to go. Do you have his ring size?” 

Frank frowns deeply. “Shit…no.”

Pat hums. “That’s okay. Are his hands like mine?” he asks, holding up his hand and extending his fingers. They’re long and slender, and actually, they do look a bit like Bengie’s hands.

“I think so…” he answers cautiously.

“Great!” Pat cries, looking over his shoulder to Eddie. “We’ll go to a jewelry shop and I’ll try on the rings, so Frank can pick one.”

Eddie smiles slowly, gazing at Pat, eyes shining fondly. “As you like, poppet.”

***

He had no idea there were so many different kinds of rings for omegas. Frank stares helplessly at the glass cases — at row after row of the little expensive hoops. He has no idea where to start, and his first impulse when Pat asks him what kind of  _aesthetic_ Bengie prefers, is to run screaming from the store. Maybe Arthur and his ilk are right. If Frank doesn’t even know what kind of ring Bengie wants, maybe they shouldn’t be getting married.

“Don’t worry,” Eddie says suddenly, flashing a sympathetic smile. “I didn’t know what Pat wanted either.”

Frank sighs. “How did you eventually decide?”

“He got the one with the most diamonds,” Pat interrupts, smiling and sticking out his hand, where there is indeed a sparkly, very expensive-looking ring hugging his finger. “But that’s just my style. You think Bengie would want something like that?”

He thinks quietly for a couple seconds. “No, I don’t think so.” Bengie wouldn’t want something so flashy. He’d go for a more understated ring. Frank finally spots a silver band—a loop completed by three diagonal diamonds. “That one,” he says, pointing it out to the man behind the counter.

Pat tries it on and it fits perfectly, which he thinks is a sign. The omega models it a bit, moving his hand this way and that so the light of the shop catches the diamonds and sparkles. “It’s lovely, Frank,” Pat sighs, and he sounds sincere. “Why three diamonds?”

At first, he doesn’t have an answer. It seems like a random number, but then he thinks about it for a couple seconds and smiles. “It took me three weeks to fall in love with him.”

It must be the right thing to say because Pat suddenly looks like he’s going to cry and Eddie chuckles: “That’s a good one, mate. Be sure to tell him that.”

***

The Aldens send him off with their best wishes and the ring inside a little velvet box. With the box nestled inside his jacket pocket, the full weight of what he’s about to do descends upon him like a stack of bricks. Frank has never been in a long-term relationship, let alone a  _marriage_. This is insane — batshit crazy. He can’t do this. He  _can’t_. 

His whole life, people have told him he’s a degenerate — the very worst of the worst. He’s a liar, a thief — a gambling and sex addict. 

Frank is a hit man and a murderer, and men don’t change. The bad stay bad, and the good are forever good.

He walks into the apartment, and Bengie is watching the local news. “Frank! Did you know the bees are dying?” he says, muting the television at once, and looking at him with such concern that Frank smiles slightly. Only Bengie would cry over some dead bees. 

“Yeah?” he asks, feeling as though he’s wading through molasses. The ring feels heavy in his pocket.

“There won’t be any flowers…” Bengie frowns, but he still kisses Frank hello before going to check on whatever is baking in the oven for dinner. It smells delicious, like everything the omega makes.

“Or food,” Frank adds, unable to think of an adequate transition from  _bees_ to  _marriage_ , so he just sticks with the bees thing. When Bengie looks up at him in confusion, he explains: “Bees pollinate food crops too.”

Pulling on his oven mitts, Bengie frowns and nods thoughtfully, almost visibly absorbing Frank’s words as though they’re greatly important. Bengie always does this whenever Frank says something even remotely smart because the kid labors under the incorrect assumption that Frank is a smart man. It’s incorrect, but hugely flattering. No one has ever described him as smart before.

“That’s so awful,” he says, removing the pot roast from the oven and placing it on top of the stove. Now that it’s out, Frank can see there are potatoes in the pan too, and they’re baked a beautiful bronze color. His mouth waters a little at the sight before he remembers his actual mission.

“Sweetheart, can you sit down for a second?”

Bengie frowns at him, removing the mitts, and nodding hesitantly. “Sure…” he says softly, sitting at the table, and adjusting his glasses to sit a little higher on his nose.

Frank stands in front of him, hands on hips, head bowed a little. He hasn’t sketched out a speech, and he deeply regrets his lack of preparation. Bengie doesn’t deserve a lackluster proposal, but he’s not a poet — he’s not sure how to articulately explain how much Bengie means to him.

Unfortunately, the pause blooms into a lengthy silence, which gives Bengie far too long to invent a dark narrative inside his mind. By the time Frank looks at him, the poor kid looks absolutely terrified. “Are you sick?” he whispers, barely holding back the tears.

 _Goddamnit_. Frank is a moron, and as a result Bengie think he’s dying of cancer or something. “No, no,” Frank quickly says, kneeling in front of the omega and holding his hands. “Bengie, I’m okay,” he adds, flashing a shaky smile. 

“Oh, good,” he sighs, squeezing Frank’s hands. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He bows his head, looking at their laced fingers, and thinks for a moment. That’s the heart of the matter: they can’t live without each other. 

“I’m a bad man,” Frank mumbles, mostly to himself.

Bengie frowns. “No you’re not.”

“Yes, I am,” he answers, smiling faintly. “But I want to try to be good….for you,” he says, freeing a hand to fetch the little box from inside his jacket pocket. He flips it open with his thumb and holds it up for Bengie to see. “Will you marry me?”

Poor Bengie managed to not cry for the bees, or over Frank’s nonexistent illness, but the proposal proves too much for him, and the tears instantly well up and spill from his eyes. “Me?” he asks, nonsensically, or so Frank thinks until he speaks next: “You want me?” He finally understands: Frank isn’t humoring or pitying him, but rather loves him and wants to marry him. He removes the ring from the box and slips it onto the omega’s finger. It fits perfectly. “It’s so pretty,” he whispers.

Frank smiles and leans up to kiss him. “Is that a yes?”

“Yes…yes..” Bengie whimpers, kissing him after each affirmation, pulling Frank to him as the alpha tries to stand. The omega ends up wrapped around his trunk, Frank’s arms holding him up, Bengie’s legs wrapped around his waist, as they kiss and Frank stumbles towards the bedroom.

Even if they undress, they’ll only lay in bed together.

That’s all Frank wants.

***

Max is furious at him because his babysitter walked out, and Eames gives him the silent treatment all the way home, but Arthur feels misunderstood, and as a result, annoyed. He was only trying to help by pointing out the incredibly obvious: Frank and Benjamin barely know each other, and marriage is an awful idea. They should engage in courtship longer, and then get engaged. Maybe in a year.

Eames parks the car in the garage and and they walk into the house, and still the alpha ignores him, until the silence becomes so unbearable Arthur finally blurts: “I feel like you’ve all gone crazy.”

The alpha pauses in the middle of the living room and takes a deep breath. “Arthur, you can’t micro-manage everyone’s relationships.”

Arthur gapes at him. “I’m not—“

“I know Frank is our grandchildren’s babysitter, but he’s also a person, and he deserves his own life.”

His face flushes angrily. “Stop talking to me like I’m some monster. Frank is our friend. I’m looking out for him.”

“You’re interfering,” Eames says, pausing to eye him thoughtfully. “Are you jealous?”

Arthur bursts out in barking laughter. “You’re ridiculous.”

The alpha meanders over to the couch and flops down, shrugging his broad shoulders in a seemingly innocent fashion, but Arthur knows the gesture is designed to needle under his skin. It’s quite effective. “Frank used to give you lots of attention and now he has his own life. I thought maybe that annoys you.”

He’s furious, skin hot with rage, and he feels out of control, a condition Arthur detests. “I’m mated to you,” he mutters from between clenched teeth. 

The angrier he gets, the calmer Eames’s demeanor. “A reality that does not make you impervious to flattery from the attention of other alphas, Arthur,” he pontificates, leaning back to stroke his beard like a goddamn philosopher.

Arthur wants to throw something at his head.

“I’m not  _jealous_. I just….”

“Wasn’t consulted?” Eames offers, not unkindly. He doesn’t look smug. Rather, his eyes gleam with something akin to sympathy. “Darling, you can’t control our family’s lives, as much as you’d like to. You can’t protect them from themselves.”

Arthur deflates slightly, a sigh heavy in his mouth as he slinks over to the couch and drops down beside Eames. “I don’t think I’m better than people—“

“—I know, darling.”

“I really was trying to help…”

“Of course,” Eames whispers, leaning over to kiss and nuzzle at his cheek, which as always is Duke’s queue to hurry over and yap at their feet until they pay him attention.

***

Frank and Bengie are busting their asses, as usual, watching the babies, and they’ve just gotten them calmed down in the twins’ room for story time with Bengie, which gives Frank a second to slip out of the room and go to the kitchen to get them some water and a snack.

Arthur is standing in the kitchen, which is news to Frank because the doorbell didn’t ring. Then again, the omega has a habit of making creepy entrances like that.

“Hey,” Frank greets, figuring it would be stupid to keep their fight going. He and Arthur bicker all the time, but they alway forgive each other.

“Here,” Arthur responds bluntly and shoves an envelope into his hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what you think I meant, but I’m sorry, anyway.” A perfect Arthurian apology, if he’s ever heard one. Frank flips open the envelope and pulls out the contents: two plane tickets, roundtrip, from L.A. to Paris. “I can change the dates, if you want, but…I want you to know I’m supportive of you two getting married.”

Frank stares at the tickets. He’d never considered honeymooning in Paris — not because money is an issue (the Eameses more than fairly compensate him, plus Mr. Saito continues to kick him a salary) — but because he’s not the guy who goes to Paris. Then again, he’s also not the guy who gets married, but here he is. 

Frank is beginning to think he’s made all kinds of incorrect assumptions about the type of man he really is.

“Arthur…” he says, unable to think of the right words to string together.

“You’re going to think you can’t do it — live a normal, happy life. But you can,” Arthur says.

Frank sighs heavily, relief washing through him like a burst dam now that someone has finally articulated how he feels. “What if I fuck up?”

“You will, and then you’ll fix it, and make a bunch more mistakes, but it’ll be okay,” the omega offers, smiling faintly.

He stares at the tickets and tries to imagine Bengie in Pairs — at some bougie cafe, walking the cobbled streets. At the top of the Eiffel Tower, the wind whipping his hair. “You think guys like you and me can change?”

Arthur looks at him for a long moment. He looks perfect, as usual — shirt secured to the top bottom at his throat, not a hair out of place, but something wavers in his gaze that makes him look vulnerable for a split second. “No,” he confesses quietly, but his gaze flits up to the ceiling for a second — more specifically, the second floor, where Max naps in the bedroom, and lovely Bengie reads a story to Arthur’s precious grandchildren. “But we can protect the good ones.”


	65. Eames/Jacob, Arthur/Juan flashback

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a time when Arthur and Eames were not yet mates

The Las Vegas strip is the brightest spot on Earth when observed from space, and it’s easy to understand why as he stumbles along at four in the morning, though it might as well be mid-afternoon from the way the neon signs light every square inch around him. He’s drunk, which is not a new situation given that his pockets are chockfull of cash and Dominic-bloody-Cobb is taking ages to finalize the details of their latest job. Eames needs structure, otherwise he engages in acts of shameless debauchery, which is why Arthur usually steps in and sets him straight.

Except Arthur isn’t working this job, a strange phenomenon indeed, since the point man and Cobb are usually locked at the hip. Cobb’s hired some other wanker, a pinch-faced unprofessional named  _Samantha_  who shoots down all of Eames’s ideas, and not in creative ways, as he’s become accustomed to with Arthur.

Apparently Arthur is vacationing by Lake Maracaibo in Venezuela with Mallorie, and Cobb aims to fuck off as well tomorrow to go join them — a hiatus, he calls it — like they’re not in the middle of working. Yes, there’s been some problems with the PASIV and Somnacin, and Eames’s mind was cloudy in the dream, and yes, he temporarily forgot Cobb’s face, and couldn’t for the life of him remember how to forge, but that’s no reason to “pause and reassess,” as the extractor puts it. 

Eames wants to keep working, even if it’s dangerous, because he’s no good with downtime. Downtime means trouble.

The sidewalk swims a bit and he staggers to a halt, shutting one eye and looking over to a fountain until the water jets come into focus. When he’s sure he isn’t seeing double anymore, Eames opens both eyes and spots a particularly bright, red neon sign that reads: OMEGAS! OMEGAS! OMEGAS! above blue lights constructed to look like a wave — water being the international symbol for omegas.  _Very interesting_. He smoothes back his hair, straightens the lapels of his jacket, and walks into the club.

It’s dark inside, so his eyes take a moment to adjust, and when they do he sees a burly bouncer looming nearby. “I.D.,” the man greets gruffly, and so Eames presents his fake identification: Henry Maloy, one of his rare personas that is also British, simply because he was feeling lazy when he created it. “Okay, go ahead,” the bouncer says.

Since the facility is located nearby the strip, it’s not the most dilapidated venue Eames has ever ventured into. All the surfaces are black onyx, including the tables located along the sunken floor. The centerpiece of the room is the stage, shaped like a “T,” stretching along the entire far wall with a section that juts out perpendicularly so the dancers can get closer to the clientele. There’s a pretty redhead omega, a female, on the stage currently, dressed in a g-string and nothing else, and working the pole like a true professional as some terrible hair metal band blares through the P.A. system. 

While Eames has always appreciated the aesthetic beauty of females (it’s a large part of his job as a forger), he’s not attracted to that particular sect of omegas, so he takes the opportunity to fetch another drink at the bar from the somber bartender with a long face and ponytail. When the man sets down his tumbler of brandy, Eames asks (raising his voice above the music): “Are there male dancers?”

Ponytail doesn’t look remotely surprised at the question. He simply nods once: “Yup, go sit down. One’ll be out soon.”

Eames decides (or perhaps the alcohol in his system decides) to throw caution to the wind and sit right in the front row, even though the other four patrons have chosen to sit towards the back, cloaked in discrete shadows. He takes a sip of his drink, glances around, and then settles in to watch the show. He feels warm from the alcohol, and generally pleased with his decision. He’s always had a soft spot for strippers, and not just because they’re lovely little omegas who take off their clothes for him. Like thieves and crooks, strippers tend to  _understand_ a man like Eames, or at the very least, they don’t ask nosy questions about what he does for a living, or where he grew up.

The first male omega who comes out is quite muscular and athletic, and while he does some very impressive gymnastics on the pole, Eames doesn’t feel any stirrings in his loins. Still, he’s sure to leave some singles on the stage for the bloke to collect at the end of his routine. After all, he’s worked very hard, and Eames doesn’t want to be a stingy bastard. There’s a bit of a break after his dance, so Eames takes the time to drain half his glass, which in retrospect might not have been such a great idea because he nods off for a second and doesn’t wake up until music blares again.

The house lights are low, blue beams flashing across the stage to indicate another dancer is about to come out. This time, he greatly approves of the song that plays: The Clash —  _I Fought The Law_ , though it’s a surreal choice, especially given his occupation, but he supposes mostly everyone in this room has committed a crime at some point. A slight, blond omega crashes through the curtains, dressed in a mock police officer’s uniform, except with extremely short shorts. He’s very high energy, smiling brightly and bouncing around, playacting with his various props (a plastic gun, his aviator sunglasses, a whistle, for some reason), and Eames can’t help but smile watching him.

Points for creativity, anyway.

The omega suddenly tears off the uniform, which apparently was secured with velcro, throws aside all his toys, and gets down to business. Now that he’s practically nude (dressed only in a red pleather thong and boots), Eames can appreciate how lovely he is. Free of the silly costume, he can see that the young man is slight, though not scrawny, and his firm rear curves lusciously as he grabs the bar and twirls around, showing off the sinewy lines of his frame. He’s young, no older than eighteen, though he probably lied about his age to work here.

“Well done!” Eames remarks when the young man climbs the pole, then hangs upside-down by his legs. He drops a $20 bill on the stage in appreciation. The omega must notice because he spends the rest of the show clearly aiming his attention towards Eames’s table, and he plays into it, laying out more money so the dancer won’t get bored and hurry off in a different direction. “You’re quite good,” Eames says, even though he’s sure customers aren’t supposed to talk, or interfere in any way, with the dancers. 

The omega is squatting in front of the pole at the time in a very alluring way that makes his rear jut out like a ripe peach. His ass is firm and perfect, and above it are two little dimples that Eames wants to trace with his tongue. He looks over his shoulder and smiles prettily: “Thanks.”

That’s how Eames knows he’s in. He’s sure a nice-looking omega like this must have rude, drunk customers shout at him all the time, and he’s no doubt perfected detached silence in response, but he’s chosen to engage with Eames.

At the end of his routine, Eames holds out a $50 bill so that the omega has to reach down from the stage to collect it — another broken rule, but it seems as though security at this club is a bit lax, and Eames aims to take full advantage of it. “What’s your name?” he asks, in his normal voice because the music is no longer playing.

The omega smiles shyly now that the show is over: “I’m not supposed to tell you.”

Eames pouts in what he happens to know is an adorable fashion. “Too bad.”

The dancer glances nervously behind Eames, perhaps checking to see if anyone is watching. Evidently, they’re not, because he adds: “Jacob.”

 _Brilliant_. Knowing he doesn’t have much time to work, he immediately asks: “Can I take you out when you’re done working?”

“I dance two more times tonight.”

“After that, then.”

“It won’t be until like five…”

“I’ll wait.”

Jacob smiles at him. “Sure, I guess. See you then.”

He gets up and walks off, and Eames watches him because he’s still only wearing the thong, and he looks delicious.

***

They’re staying in an estate by the lake — not a hotel, but an actual home belonging to one of Juan’s friends who is currently in a different part of the world at one of their other massive houses. It’s huge and beautiful with marble floors and columns in the grand foyer where a team of staff (maids and butlers) greet Arthur and Mal upon their arrival. “Mon dieu,” Mal sighs, gazing up at the dome ceiling where some master artiste has painstakingly laid Moroccan tiles into a pattern meant to replicate a pristine blue sky. 

Arthur can only nod dumbly in agreement. It’s breathtaking. Juan has really outdone himself this time.

Last year, the Cobbs did some employee screenings for Juan Vásquez’s company, Industrias Mundiales Del Acero, that basically entailed hooking up workers to the PASIV and scanning their brains for any nefarious thoughts or behavior. Sort of like the world’s most invasive background check. It was a boring job that paid lavishly, and during it Juan took a particular liking to Arthur, and they began seeing each other (with Dom’s approval, of course) soon after. 

He’ll be staying in his own private quarters — a massive suite decked out in white pieces of furniture, and enormous French doors that lead out to a large balcony. Mal throws open the doors, curtains billowing in the breeze, because she’s invaded his room, claiming it’’s “so much larger” than her quarters. “He must be smitten with you, Arthur,” she teases, leaning against the bannister and peering over the edge. 

Arthur nearly snorts with laughter, but he doesn’t deny it. It’s nice to be here, with Mal, on vacation at the behest of a handsome alpha who, yes, is very interested in courting him.

“Ah, you’re here!” Juan’s voice drifts outside, and when they turn, he’s walking into the room towards them, dressed in white to match the room. The front of his shirt is unbuttoned past the dip of his clavicle, exposing tan flesh. He’s smiling, clearly thrilled to see them, which makes Arthur feel a little lightheaded. 

The offer to stay in the estate is flattering, but comes with enormous pressure, and Arthur isn’t sure what Juan expects of him now that he’s agreed to stay in the master suite. Arthur is good with details, and he noticed this is the largest bedroom with the biggest bed, and he’s wondering if Juan expects to sleep here too.

“Hi,” Arthur greets, smiling when Juan walks right up and kisses him — chastely, of course, but that doesn’t stop Mal from grinning wolfishly at them afterwards.

“Bonjour, Juan,” she purrs, and they spend a couple moments rambling at each other in French — Arthur understands bits and pieces (they converse about the beautiful view, the lush living arrangements), but they ultimately lose him due to the rapid speed of the chit chat. 

“Change into your swimsuits and meet me downstairs. The water is perfect,” Juan instructs, as he always does. He’s a man accustomed to people obeying his orders, probably because he pays for everything and only demands the people around him enjoy themselves. He looks pointedly at Arthur: “I want to see you in your bathing suit,” he says, throwing in a wink in case any of them thought it was an innocent request.

“Cheeky devil,” Mal cackles, as Arthur rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, cheeks flushed.

He’s very close to relaxing and enjoying himself when he remembers at the last second that Dom is still working the Vegas job. “Isn’t Dom supposed to be on a flight today? I wonder if they got held up. Maybe I should call,” he says, instinctively reaching for his trouser pocket where his trusty cellphone is located, but Mal reaches out to touch his hand.

“Don’t you dare. You’re supposed to be vacationing,” she scolds, though her eyes sparkle mischievously.

“I know, but Eames is with him, and you know how that goes.”

Juan pouts playfully. “The infamous Mr. Eames. You’re always talking about him—“

“I’m afraid Mr. Eames requires a babysitter, and unfortunately that tends to be our poor dear Arthur,” Mal grins.

He knows when to take a hint. “All right, all right,” Arthur laughs, withdrawing his hand. “Let’s go swim.”

***

He’s tipsy and shouldn’t be driving, but rationalizes that it’s only a few blocks from their hotel to the club, and he drives slow the whole way before parking in a side alley. He left a message with the bartender, telling ponytail to inform little Jacob that he would rendezvous with him outside the staff exit. He rubs at his jaw and neck, glancing around the alley, though there isn’t much to see: rubbish bags spilling out of a dumpster as though no one has been around in ages to pick them up, a couple rats scurrying about, and the odd car that passes along the street behind him, headlights briefly shining in the rearview window.

Suddenly the side door bursts open and little Jacob is hurrying towards the car, wearing only a trench coat, and from the looks of it, nothing underneath. “Sorry I’m late!” he cries, piling into the car and slamming the door shut behind him. He’s laughing and wreaks of alcohol, as though he just did a shot on his way out of the club, but Eames supposes it must be dull between performances, and the dancers probably drink to keep themselves preoccupied. “Oh fuck!” he declares, smacking his forehead as if he’s just remembered something. “I don’t even know your name,” he bursts out laughing.

Eames grins slowly. “Henry,” he says, gaze dropping to the v-neck of the coat and all the exposed flesh that shines in the dim light of the alley. It takes Eames a moment to realize Jacob is wearing glittery lotion that makes him shine like a diamond. 

“Ohhhh,” he replies, smiling as though Eames has said something terribly interesting. “I was calling you the Hot British Guy to the other dancers,” he giggles, and Eames notices he’s chomping on something — gum — strawberry, from the smell of it.

“Is that right?” he grins, giddy and happy because he likes Jacob, and he’s beginning to think they understand each other perfectly. He’s not looking for anything serious — why else would he be lurking in a strip club in the wee hours of the morning? And Jacob doesn’t seem to be interested in any great romance. Much like Vegas itself, Jacob is loud, brash, and bold — superficial, but fun — sexy and definitely bad for Eames, but he’s in the mood for someone who will require nothing of him in the morning.

Jacob smiles brightly at him. “Yup,” he chirps, gum smacking loudly.

Eames glances first at the club’s door, then in the rearview mirror to see if there is any traffic behind him. There isn’t. It’s still too early for the rush hour business deluge. “Know of any places that are open right now?” It’s a silly question because this is Vegas, and of course there are places open 24-hours a day, but he isn’t quite sure what the social protocol is when picking up strippers. Jacob isn’t a prostitute and Eames doesn’t want to treat him like one.

The omega giggles, as though Eames has said something terribly adorable. “Don’t be nervous,” he coos, and then to Eames’s great surprise, Jacob reaches to his lap and unbuckles his belt. “You’re really hot,” he purrs, pulling down the zipper and yanking down Eames’s underwear so his half-hard cock pops out. He’s been in this state since he first saw Jacob prance across the stage. Before Eames can formulate an articulate response, Jacob dips down and swallows him whole.

The back of his head hits the seat as he groans loudly, eyes slipping shut. He holds the back of the omega’s head as Jacob bobs up and down, expertly tonguing and rolling the gun around Eames’s length until he’s completely rigid and leaking into his mouth. Occasionally, he dares to open an eye to watch Jacob work — his plump lips glossy with saliva as he swallows Eames’s cock. When Jacob looks up at him and moans, Eames’s fingers tighten in his hair and he has to close his eyes again or he’s going to come right then and there.

Eames’s hand gropes around the base of the seat until he finds the lever and pushes the seat back a bit so Jacob has more room to work. It feels heavenly, and Eames is only able to last as long as he does because the alcohol in his system has dulled his nerve endings a bit. He hits his limit when Jacob reaches down and cups his balls, massaging them slowly. “Fuck, stop,” Eames growls, pushing Jacob off him gently. 

“Good?” Jacob asks, breathless and flushed. His lips are swollen, eyes glassy, and Eames wants to fuck him speechless.

“Get in the back,” he orders bluntly, but Jacob shakes his head.

“I live close by.”

***

Eames doesn’t remember driving to Jacob’s apartment. He shouldn’t be driving. He shouldn’t be doing any of this, but all he can focus on are the sway of Jacob’s hips and the lovely swell of his ass outlined by the trench coat as Jacob grips his hand and ascends the stairs. They stumble through the apartment door, Jacob wrapped around him, Eames kissing him and coaxing little, soft moans from his throat. The omega slips away from him, smiling as he unfastens the coat, putting on a little show for him.

Eames grins and catches sight of his reflection in a mirror positioned on the wall by the bed. He’s wearing a few days worth of stubble and looks puffy (too much booze and rich food, among other things). Eames quickly looks away and focuses on Jacob, who has just slipped off the coat and stands there in the minuscule, red thong. 

“Bloody hell,” he laughs, taking in the vision appreciatively. 

“Good?” Jacob asks again, kicking off his shoes and climbing onto the bed on all fours, ass pointed right at him. “Come fuck me with your big dick.”

As though he could possibly resist those kinds of direct orders. Eames sheds his clothes like he’s angry at them — yanking and pulling until he’s naked and standing behind the omega — swearing and groping at him, sticking his fingers into Jacob’s wetness and moving them until he’s whining and thrusting against his hand.

Eames pulls aside the thong and thrusts into him. He wails, wetness pouring from him and Eames leans close, forehead pressed to the slick spot between his shoulders, so he can smell it: the sweet, distinct smell of an omega. Eames loves it, and truly, it’s his favorite thing in the world, but for whatever reason, this time it doesn’t smell as blissfully refreshing. He tells himself it’s because he’s drunk. “Down,” he commands, pressing against Jacob’s spine until the young man bows before him.

He needs to be quick so he can get back to the hotel and sleep it off. Even though he has some time off, Eames wants to be at Cobb’s beck and call because God forbid the extractor randomly decides to cut his vacation short and return to work sooner than expected, and Eames is hung over or unable to work, and word of his failure gets back to Arthur. The point man will never, ever let him live it down — forever armed with this needle, proof of Eames’s unprofessionalism — that he’ll wear as a smug smirk and swagger.

He grips Jacob’s narrow waist and fucks him hard until Jacob’s cries and the slapping of their flesh becomes a single, distant pulse of noise, a soundtrack for the white, blinding light behind his eyelids.

Then Eames sleeps for a long time.

***

Juan was right — the water is perfect. 

Dom arrives late in the afternoon, but the lake is still hospitable, and the four of them plunge into the water, laughing as they surface, and spend the rest of the time lounging on blankets on the grassy bank. Arthur wears a small black swimsuit, and he can tell Juan appreciates the view, the alpha watching him closely the whole time even when Mal and Dom are speaking.

Arthur lays out in the sun and pretends to ignore him, but he’s hyperaware of Juan’s presence the whole time. The alpha is wearing blue swim trunks, and his bronze, toned flesh gleams in the light of the sun. Not for the first time, Arthur applauds himself for showing such self-restraint this long, especially considering how many times Juan has tried to lure him into bed. 

He tells himself he’s waiting for the right time.

Unable to help himself, Arthur glances at his phone, checking for any new text messages. Dom must notice because he comments, “No one will be calling, Arthur. I gave the whole team some time off.” Mal remains silent, slumped backwards into Dom’s waiting arms. He kisses the side of her neck and she smiles.

“I know,” he answers breezily. “I’m just checking—“

“I’m sure Eames is busy losing his money, or God knows what else—“

Arthur rolls hie eyes. “I’m just checking to see if I have any new emails,” he interrupts, not in the mood to hear Dom talk ill of Eames for the millionth time. He’s well aware the extractor thinks the other alpha is a louse, albeit a talented one. And besides, Dom likes Juan, calls him a  _very respectable, successful businessman_ , and he’s really the one Dom wants to see Arthur mate.

Everyone agrees the alpha is perfect for him.

When he sets aside his phone, Juan is watching him with curious eyes.

***

It’s no surprise that dinner is as opulent an event as every other detail of the manor, though Arthur is too nervous to eat much because he can’t stop thinking of what the end of the night will bring — when they all retire for the evening. They eat in fresh clothes at a long, candlelit table, and the servants bring platter after platter of succulent courses. Mal drinks steadily and regales them with tales (that occasionally slide into rants in French) until Dom stands and sheepishly smiles at them.

“I think it’s time for sleep,” he chuckles, smiling fondly at Mal as he helps her to her feet. 

Only Mal could remain beautiful and chic whilst intoxicated, slumped against Dom’s side as they walk from the room and she cries: “Goodnight, my loves!”

Juan stands up soon afterwards and offers a hand. “Shall we?”

Arthur swallows thickly and accepts the offer as he stands up.

He’s not surprised when Juan joins him in the master bedroom, but Arthur must nonetheless look nervous because the alpha smiles fondly before he cups Arthur’s face and kisses him softly. “I would never ask something of you that you are not ready to give, mi dulce.”

Arthur smiles slowly, laying his hands across Juan’s. “I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful,” he whispers.

Juan hums and leans forward to kiss his forehead. “I invited you here because I enjoy your company. Not because I expect anything from you,” he says, walking over to the wide bed and sitting on the edge. He pats the empty spot beside him as he adds: “I am your servant.”

In fact, he is one of the most powerful men in South America, but Arthur doesn’t point out this small detail as he walks to the bed and sits beside Juan. Everything about him is confident, and manly, including the way he touches the side of Arthur’s face, and then his chin, gently guiding him forward until their lips meet. Juan kisses like he does everything else — masterfully, with effortless skill that leaves Arthur trembling slightly, shaping him into pliant submission when the alpha pushes against his shoulders and coaxes him onto his back.

Juan is testing the waters — checking in increments to see how Arthur reacts. They kiss for a long while, and then Juan lays atop him, which also feels nice, the pressure firm and reassuring. But when the alpha moves to slide his fingers under the waistband of Arthur’s slacks, he freezes, and Juan notices immediately, climbing off with a series of mumbled apologies.

“No, it’s not—Juan, really. It’s okay,” Arthur reassures him, sitting up and gripping his hand. “I’m just…” he starts, then stops, not knowing how to finish that thought because he has no idea why he can’t just be with Juan, let the alpha mate him, and be happy the rest of his life. “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“Mi dulce…” Juan sighs, lacing their fingers, raising the hand to his lips to kiss it. He’s devastatingly handsome even when disappointed. “Do not apologize. I would never have you betray your heart.”

Arthur has no idea what he means by that. He can’t betray his heart because his heart doesn’t want anyone else. In fact, Arthur doesn’t have the faintest idea what his heart wants. He doesn’t understand why things can’t be simple and neat for him. Juan is perfect for him, and yet he can’t make his body understand this one, simple truth.

***

When Eames awakes, Jacob is sitting nude at the foot of the bed, smoking a joint. He squints in confusion when the omega extends the joint his way, unable to make sense of the offer until Jacob makes a verbal offer: “Want to take a hit?”

“No,” Eames croaks, lifting a skull filled with concrete, and groaning throughout the effort. He glances around the room, trying to find a clock. “What time is it?”

Jacob shrugs, but answers: “Like six, I think.”

Eames curses under his breath. “I need to go,” he groans, attempting to sit up, but crashing back to the pillows. His head is throbbing, but he needs to go back to the hotel and shower so he can be by the phone when Cobb gets back and calls him, or else Arthur will scowl at him. “Fucking hell,” he growls, extending his hand to Jacob. “Give it,” he mutters, accepting the joint, and taking a long hit as he watches the omega crawls up the bed and lay down on his stomach, back curved tantalizingly down to the gorgeous swell of his rear.

“Wanna fuck again before you go?” the omega asks, smiling prettily.

Eames watches him for a long moment. “I don’t dream anymore,” he blurts, then blinks owlishly and stares at the joint, which must contain stronger marijuana than he initially thought.

Luckily, Jacob is not the type of omega who asks questions, or thinks about such topics too deeply. “I do. All the time. Mostly about food. Last night, I dreamed I was trapped inside a giant cupcake and I ate my way out.”

Smirking, he leans to the side and leaves the joint in an ashtray. “Oh yeah?” Eames asks suggestively, even though they’re talking about dreams and cupcakes. “I bet it had sprinkles,” he says, patting his lap.

Jacob needs zero additional encouragement. He grins and climbs up Eames’s body, straddling his waist, hands splayed across the alpha’s broad chest. “Uh-huh. It did,” he sighs as the man grips his rear and spreads the cheeks.

There are worse ways to start the day than having a lovely omega bounce enthusiastically on his cock, but Eames can’t fully enjoy himself because his head is throbbing and his mouth tastes like an ashtray. Jacob is a beautiful little crumpet — historically, Eames’s type, but his mind wanders even while they’re rutting, and he finds himself miserably recounting every drink, every decision that led to this moment. Suddenly, he’s overwhelmed by the desire to finish — to be out of Jacob’s apartment, and out of Las Vegas, forever.

His orgasm is mechanical, cold and barren because he doesn’t knot Jacob because Eames never knots the people he causally fucks. It’s far too intimate, and he’’d rather finish by climaxing on his chest than be tied to someone whose last name he doesn’t know.

Afterwards, Jacob cleans him up and lays beside him, head pressed to Eames’s chest. It’s nice, but too romantic, and so Eames distracts them by making stupid jokes, and snapping a selfie of them — mostly of Jacob, the omega’s face pressed to his tattoos. It’s a good photo, and Eames suggests he plans to post it to his Myspace page.

“Oh yeah?” Jacob teases, smiling. “With what caption?”

Eames thinks for a moment. “My favorite dancer.”

Jacob laughs, pleased with the answer. 

***

The goodbye isn’t awkward, mostly because Jacob is merciful and allows Eames the dignity of a quick escape. The omega leans against the wall by the door, watching Eames secure his clothing and various personal items. “You know where I live, if you get bored while you’re here,” he says, uncomplicated and unburdened, and exactly the type of omega Eames has slept with his whole adult life. 

Eames holds him by the chin and kisses him gently on his way out. “Thank you.” He’s not sure why he thanks Jacob, other than the fact that he needed something, and in that moment, Jacob was there to give it to him.

“Sure, big guy. Drive safe,” Jacob says, smiling in a way that makes Eames want to stay, but only briefly.

He heads straight back to the hotel, and is only in his room for fifteen seconds before his phone rings.

It’s Arthur.

Eames smoothes the front of his jacket, then his hair, as if Arthur will be able to detect through the phone that he’s walking around looking unprofessional. He flips open the phone and greets: “I knew you’d miss me too much to enjoy your vacation.”

Arthur stands on the balcony, watching the sun’s light dance across the water, and he smirks, leaning against the banister. “I’m checking to make sure you’re behaving yourself so our reputation isn’t completely butchered by the time we get back.”

He hums thoughtfully, fingertips drumming happily against his chest as he ponders the correct response. Eames listens carefully, detecting the sound of wind. He wonders where Arthur is standing that very moment, and he tries to imagine what he’s looking at — probably the lake. 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, darling. Are you having fun?”

“Stay sharp until we get back. Don’t drink too much.”

“I’m sustaining myself on juice and salads.”

Arthur grins and shakes his head. “Uh-huh. Okay, well I just wanted to make sure you’ll be ready to go when Dom gets back.”

He briefly ponders saying something sexually inappropriate, but thinks better of it. If he pushes things too far, Arthur will hang up on him. “I’ll wager Cobb looks bloody strange in a swimsuit.”

The gamble pays off because Arthur barks with laughter. In Venezuela, he smiles brightly, and gazes down at the grounds. Juan, Cobb, and Mal are gathered down below, ready to hit the lake, and they wave up at him. He waves back, knowing he should hang up. He will hang up…in a moment.

“Stop it.”

“I’ll bet you look smashing, though.”

“Eames…”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, shutting his eyes for a moment so he can focus on the laughter in Arthur’s voice. It’s a rare sound that he almost never gets to hear because the point man is so gravely serious on the job. “Are you with someone?” he asks, a bold step into uncharted territory, but he doesn’t care. He’s been wondering it this whole time, and now he has Arthur on the phone, all to himself, and he wants an answer.

Arthur sobers instantly. It’s light fun to flirt with Eames off-the-clock, but sometimes the forger takes it too far. It’s none of his business if Arthur is vacationing with someone other than the Cobbs, and he shouldn’t lead on the alpha. “I have to go. Take care of yourself, okay?”

“Arthur…”

There’s no answer, and when he looks down, he sees the call has disconnected.

Eames sits there for a while, rolling the phone in his hand. He should shower, maybe shave.

He wants to look smart for when Arthur gets back.

**Author's Note:**

> followfollowfollow http://theaoidos.tumblr.com/
> 
> UPDATE: I no longer update the WPF drabbles on AO3, but I'm still writing them, and you can find the updated masterlist here: http://theaoidos.tumblr.com/post/59221248643/white-picket-fences-fic-masterlist


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